Becoming a Reality
by Aeterna Knight
Summary: A sequel to TreesandCheese's Becoming a Memory. In a world where the United States has taken over all of America and countries are dropping like flies, Russia finds a new nation who has the power to change what has been fact for almost one hundred years. Full summary and warnings inside. RusCan, FrUk, AmeCan/UsCan, OC(ish). *ON HIATUS FOR REWRITE!*
1. Chapter 1: Regret

**Summary: **A sequel to _TreesandCheese_'s story, _Becoming a Memory_. In a future world where the United States has taken over the Americas and, in response, countries are dropping like flies, Russia finds a new nation who may be able to change what has been fact for almost one hundred years - Canada's death. But will secrets and emotion destroy this country's chance of normalcy?

**Genres: **(Not in any specific order) Romance, humour, mystery, tragedy, hurt/comfort, family, friendship, action.

**Warnings:** Violence, dark themes, profanity, France being France (because that's what he does).

**Important Author's Note!** I'm going to be rewriting the first couple of chapters because they're rough around the edges... So, yeah... And not all of this story is going to be dark, don't worry. Fluff is in the near future (like, chapter four-ish).

* * *

**In Dedication to**

_TreesandCheese, _the author of the original story

_Dragonflame666 _for being the first to say they'd read it

_Artificial Starlight _for inspiring me to get an account

and for writing _Giving In._

* * *

**Becoming a Reality**

**Chapter One:**

"_Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form."_

-Rumi

**_I_**_van hated the feeling_ that was slowly boiling in his gut. Canada was dead, for good this time. America had taken him over and, like many other countries, had disappeared in his captor's masses. How could Alfred have shown no remorse whatsoever for what he had done? He hadn't even cared. Russia prayed that if there really was a god, that he'd banish Alfred to the depths of hell for good.

Ivan allowed himself to wander aimlessly throughout the coniferous forest that surrounded his home. He was engulfed by the pine fumes but ignored them easily, his mind wandering elsewhere. He was fantasizing about wringing the American's neck, putting him through the pain Ivan had gone through when Matthew bravely faced his death, when a sudden movement caught his eye.

He followed the shady character until it disappeared, leaving him in a snow-covered clearing. He looked up at the tall pines piercing the grey, lifeless sky. It was going to snow again soon, he had better get back home. However, as the tall Russian looked back down, a small girl stood in front of him. Raven hair framed an emotionless, pale face, lifeless grey eyes, as melancholic as the skies above them, stared at him.

"Who are you?" She asked him, her young voice contrasting the seriousness of her tone.

She had to ask him that. In that way. Like Kumajirou, "I should be asking you that, _devushka_. You are on my land, da?"

"Not anymore, this clearing is mine and mine alone,"

"Where are your parents?" He asked, guessing she was just wondering in the forest and got lost.

"What are 'parents?'" She asked indifferently. Did she just ask..?

"Your family, the ones that raise you, give you life,"

"I get life from the animals in this clearing. The trees raised me,"

"How old are you?" Ivan asked the strange girl. Not once had she shown any emotion. Could she feel? Or was she like him?

"I don't know."

"Your name?"

"I don't know." He looked at her, then walked over to a tree, snapping off its branch. She cried out in pain and fell to the ground, clutching at her arm. _She's a country_, he thought to himself, puzzled. _In my backyard?_

He picked her small frame up with ease and began to trek back home. Something inside Ivan told him to take care of her.

* * *

Ivan was unsure of what to do with Anastasie, that was her name. She had grown so fast but nothing changed in the clearing that affected her all those years ago. It hadn't grown bigger, it hadn't gotten smaller and still no one lived in it. Yet, she now looked like your average teenager, albeit gloomy.

Russia walked into the spacious kitchen to find her already sitting at the counter, eyes unlooking towards the early morning spring scene outside.

"You didn't eat your cereal, Ana," the Russian blandly stated, slight concern in his voice.

She glanced back at her soggy _Chudos_, "Oh," she started to get up to dump out the mush, but Ivan gestured for her to sit down, taking the bowl himself.

"Eggs?"

"Sure," this was _talkative_ for her. Some days she only replied in slight nods. He walked over to the fridge and took out a carton of eggs, he turned around to find Anastasie had placed a pan on the stove. She was so quiet that not even Ivan heard her and he usually heard everything. She put her hand out expectantly towards him, almost as if she expected she had telekinesis and the eggs would fly into her palms. He handed them over and she placed the grey, cardboard package beside the black stainless steel stove. She walked over to the closet set in the wall beside the fridge and reached inside, taking out a flowered apron. She tied back her long, silky black hair and began to mix different ingredients.

Ivan frowned at the sight. She reminded him of _Matvey_, if that was possible. They were polar opposites in personality-or lack of personality-and appearance. The Canadian's hair was thick, blond and wavy, his eyes a warm violet and his skin creamy honey. Anastasie's hair was jet black and pin-straight, her eyes a cold grey and her skin was nearly as pale as the snow that Ivan had found her in. But, here he was staring at her back as she cooked up omelets, moving back and forth from the fridge to the stove, picking out different ingredients for them.

Russia stalked out of the room and into his study. He picked up the phone and hesitated momentarily. He had to tell someone about her. It had been fifty years since he found her and he was starting to think he had raised her wrong and that was why she was like that. Ivan needed to ask someone their opinion and it would probably be good for Anastasie. She had only ever met him, being cooped up in this house the whole time.

He began to call France, the name she chose for herself was French, wasn't it? But upon reconsideration, he decided that it would be best if the second person she ever met wasn't a rapist._ Him, yes, him. He would do perfectly_. Ivan began punching in the numbers on the phone, waiting as the dial tone sounded.

"_Hello_?" A British voice asked on the other end of the line, "_Who is this?_"

"Ah, England, I was wondering if you'd come visiting?"

"_Oh! Russia! I'm sorry, I'm a little preoccupied and-_"

"So, I'll see you at three, da?" He asked, a grin creeping on his face as he used his high, childish voice. Ivan hadn't been able to do that in so long, he had no reason.

"_Haha... Okay,_"

"_Who's that, Arthur?_" A French voice mumbled, "_oh, don't tell me you're cheating on me. I'll have to_ _punish_ _you,_"

"_Clear off, you bloody frog!_"

"_Ohonhonhonhon~_"

"_Don't touch me _there_, you wanker!_" The dial tone sounded once again. Now, all Russia would have to do was wait. And tell Anastasie.

He turned around to find her standing in the doorway, "breakfast is ready." Something really was up with her.

He returned to the kitchen, following after the slim, black form in front of him. The food set down in front of him looked great. _When did she get to practice? She only ever makes herself cereal or eats what I make_, Ivan thought to himself, curious.

"Who is coming over?" He felt her eyes on him and he lifted his head.

"Pardon?"

"In the study you ordered a Englishman being molested by a Frenchman to come over at three," she said with a straight face.

He looked at her, dumbfounded. She hadn't spoken this much since ever.

"Oh, um... Well, it's another Country, Ana,"

"England?" Russia nodded and Ana turned back to her omelet.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello! This is my first ever fanfiction! It's based off the one-shot, "_Becoming a Memory_," by TreesandCheese and is dedicated to them, Dragonflame666, who was the first to say they'd read my fanfiction, and Artificial Starlight for inspiring me to make an account and for writing _Giving In_. Check that story out for me, okay? Also, review, review, review! If you find any errors, I'd be very happy if you'd point them out. On that note, I did not spell _colour, neighbour_, or anything else with a random _u_ in it wrong (unless of course you're British or Canadian, then you can tell me I put a _u_ somewhere it shouldn't be).

**Translations:**

**Da (Russian): **Yes

**Ohonhonhonhon (French):** I am a creepy-ass rapist (just kidding, it's not actually a word in any language)

**Devuska (Russian): **girl

Also, if any translations are wrong, please inform me. I use phonetics because I, personally, like knowing how to pronounce foreign languages.

**Disclaimer! **I seriously do not own any copyrighted products or characters used in this piece (except for Anastasie). They all belong to their respective owners. The storyline isn't even fully mine, as it's based off another fanfiction (which I got permission to use, FYI)! And _Chudos_ are a real brand of Russian cereal. That I do not own. In any way, shape or form.

**Chapter Two Teaser: **"I knew you'd be here," the man said, concentrating his gaze on her. His hair was covered in a black tuque, the rim of his jacket's hood edged in fur. Heavy boots adorned his feet. Anastasie registered to not let them connect by any means necessary. She smiled her sweetest smile, eyes narrowing in malice. She did not like him.


	2. Chapter 2: Discord

**In Dedication** **to,**

_TreesandCheese,_

_Dragonflame666,_

_and Artificial Starlight_

**Chapter Two:**

"_Some momentary awareness becomes_

_and comes as an unexpected visitor,"_

-Rumi, _Awareness Comes as an Unexpected Visitor_

_**E**__ngland shakily walked up_ to Russia's house. He hadn't asked him over since _then_, so, what could he want? Arthur scrunched up his eyebrows and bit his lower lip as he knocked on the large, solid wood door. It took a few seconds for the bulky Russian to answer the front door, "Sorry for making you wait," the man seemed out of breath, making the Englishman even more suspicious.

"It's alright, Russia," he took his coat and hung it in the closet, leading him down the hallway and to the living room, once seated, he looked up expectantly at the tall Russian, his incredulous green eyes connecting with violet. "Would you like to tell me why I'm here, Russia?"

"First, you need to promise me something," England nodded, "you need to be open minded for me, da?" England nodded once more and the Russian disappeared upstairs. Arthur waited until the sound of footsteps reached his ears again, this time two sets.

"England, this is Anastasie," a teenager stepped out from behind the arch, half of her black hair pulled up, and the other half cascading down her back. She wore a dark grey, long-sleeved plaid shirt and black leggings, her slippers were white, a sharp contrast to her Gothic apparel.

"So, you called me over to talk to me about your new-found pedophilia?" England sighed, turns out it wouldn't be a _trio_ anymore...

"нет, she's a country," Ivan glared.

"What? A country?"

"I found her wandering in my woods fifty years ago. There's a clearing that is connected to her, it's her lands,"

"Fifty-!? I'm not going to ask. I understand; I would have done the same." England sighed, remembering his son, then turning to Anastasie, "That clearing is your only lands?" A clearing would be much too small for her to be so grown.

"I don't know," she really was as detached as she looked. The girl was even more messed up than Russia. "You're England," he nodded in reply. She walked towards the adjacent kitchen and put on the kettle. "We have Earl Grey,"

"Oh, that would be brilliant, thank you,"

"Ivan?" He nodded.

Anastasie hummed as she took out the tea bags, kettle, milk and honey. She went about setting up the kettle so the water would boil. Ivan couldn't put his finger on what song it was that she was humming, exactly, but he knew he knew it from somewhere.

For the rest of England's visit she remained respectful to his unending barrage of questions and she, herself, was uncharacteristically animated. Until he left.

Russia had excused himself to get something for Arthur before he left and Anastasie gave him his coat. She opted to put it on him herself which earned her a surprised "Oh!" From the Brit.

As soon as she was close enough to his ear, she hissed lightly, "You still hate Alfred, don't you?" He immediately spun around, looking at the smiling girl.

"W-what?" He stammered, but she had begun walking away from him. Soon after her departure, Russia came down the stairs holding a letter.

"I was going through some of Matvey's stuff and I found this. It's addressed to you." He pushed the envelope into Arthur's hand and he replied a muted thank you, rushing out the door awkwardly.

"Ana!" The Russian shouted, stalking into the kitchen. She was sitting pleasantly, eating her cereal. "What did you say to England, _devuska_?"

"Nothing," she replied, munching happily on her _Chudos_. Ivan glared at her.

"He looked like he'd seen a ghost when I came downstairs, Ana. Do not lie to me, da?" He was getting angry at her. It was one thing to be her usual self towards him but she should be more respectful towards others!

"I asked him if he still hated America." Ana replied bluntly. Ivan gave up. In no way would he be able to tell her that was an emotional spot for Arthur, she wouldn't understand.

Russia walked away and into his study. He sat in the chair and looked around the dark wooded room, the bookshelves covered in leather-bound compendiums, and glass-encased scrolls. He could see Matthew all over the room. Sitting on the desk, fingering the books, admiring the scrolls, lounging on the couch, calling him for dinner, lunch, breakfast, bedtime. He grabbed a red hardcover off his mahogany desk and rested on the chesterfield, taking out the bookmark and continuing to read from where he had left off.

* * *

Anastasie opened the door to get Ivan for supper. Earlier she had come to get him to make _her_ something to eat, but realized he was sleeping and made them food herself. She made borscht, which she knew was his favourite, since he'd made it so many times before. She went back to the kitchen and put the bowl in the fridge, along with a note saying it was supper and took her own bowl into the front hallway. There, she slipped on her boots, coat, gloves, hat and scarf and headed out, locking the door behind her.

Soup in hand, she weaved her way into the forest, its dark canopy hovering over her, the cold nipping angrily at her cheeks. She rested against a tree trunk in her clearing, snowflakes drifting down occasionally from the somber sky. Taking out a spoon, the girl ate a mouthful of the Russian soup, swallowing it easily. She enjoyed the company of her clearing, as empty as it was. Her country was so far away from here, so she had never been able to visit it in person, if it could even be called a real country.

When she finished her soup, she set the bowl and spoon down and got up from her spot. She looked over to the skeletal figure of a tree and utilized its nooks and knobs to bring herself up to one of the lower branches. She did this quickly as someone was coming. Was the figure snooping through her glade a simple passer-by? Or was it someone else...

She watched carefully as the figure scanned the clearing, as if looking for clues of a disturbance. He walked over to the tree, where there was a patch of bare ground, and picked up the bowl, rolling it in his palms. His head jerked upwards as Anastasie shifted her weight and he pulled out a gun so fast, a silencer already fixed against the black barrel, and shot at her. She could barely dodge. _He is definitely not a passer-by_, she thought to herself, swinging down, away from his aim.

As she weaved in and out of the clearing, tree trunks shattering in splinters as the bullets pierced them, the man evidently gave up with his gun. He emptied it if she decided to use it, casting the gun and its magazine to opposite sides. She stopped her display of intricate dodging, staring across the grey clearing at him, reminding the man of a deer. Her body visibly relaxed its stance.

"I knew you'd be here," the man said, concentrating his dark gaze on her. His hair was covered in a black tuque, the rim of his jacket's hood edged in fur. Heavy boots adorned his feet. Anastasie registered to not let them connect by any means necessary. She smiled her sweetest smile, eyes narrowing in malice. She did not like him.

Running towards her, he prepared a plan of attack in his head. This would be over quick and he wouldn't have to hear complaining from his boss anymore. She stood there, holding her ground. He reached out to punch her in the jaw, but somehow her agile body flipped over him, using his head as a balance, and grabbed hold of the back of his knitted scarf, pulling down. He whipped his hand back, connecting with her cheek, she flew into the base of a nearby pine tree, losing her breath from her lungs.

He ran forward, trying not to underestimate her again. He grabbed a fistful of her black hair, jerking her upwards. Her jaw clenched, possibly to suppress a cry of pain, but her eyes remained dull and indifferent to the predicament she was in. _The cocky witch_, he thought to himself. _This is the pathetic thing my boss is concerned about?_ A sly smile crept onto her pale face. It was enough to send chills down his back, reminding him of a certain commie.

"_He's not a communist anymore, you know!_" He heard a voice say in his head. He shook it out. He didn't need to think about that now. She kicked out at his face, smashing her foot into his cheek. Dropping her, he stumbled back, clutching the bridge of his nose, praying it wasn't broken. She walked slowly towards him, black overcoat swaying around her knees. Her hair was a mess, her hat lay in a heap near the tree with her scarf and she was removing her wool gloves, exposing pale hands. After ensuring that his nose wasn't a mashed up mess, he prepared for whatever was to come next. Her eyes remained transfixed on him, her emotions not showing, her breath visible in the cold air.

He decided to make the first move. Lunging forward, he intended to kick her, missing by a hair as she slipped behind him, stealthily elbowing him directly along his spine. The force of the blow wasn't nearly powerful enough to hurt him in any serious manner, but it did surprise him. A lot. His body snapped back, eyes flaring with rage. A little girl was _not_ going to get the better of him. "So, you want to play with the big boys," he snarled.

Back tracking, he took in his surroundings, something he should have done from the start, but his ego had gotten in the way. The clearing was about forty feet wide, and sixty feet long, edged in thick pines. There was a thin layer of snow on the ground, not quite enough to hide formidable roots, but enough to be leery of. She was much younger than him; he had more experience, but then, she also knew the land better and had a good grip on anticipating attacks. She was also patient, something he had never been good with. The snowflakes became thicker.

He squinted his eyes at the girl. She wore black, which would be good for concealing herself among the pines, but so did he. She was thin and flexible, which meant he would have to work harder at closing the gaps in his defences. She was small, which left little room for error on his part when trying to land blows. But what were her weaknesses? Blunt force. She would crumble from a direct blow. _Direct it is_, he thought to himself.

He ran at her, only to have her run away, straight into a tree... and another aerial flip? She pushed him against the tree, his cheek rubbing against the rough bark. Her tactics had mainly included using his weight against him. Dodge after dodge, strike after strike, the both of them became more tired and weary than they would care to admit. The sun, if it could even be said that it was ever up at all, descended past the trees, darkening the glade even more so. This was the climate Anastasie enjoyed. Toying with his mind would be amusing.

The scent of evergreen seemed to intensify as darkness crept along, deepening the shadows. Low whistling rustled the pine needles dancing above their heads. Or his head. The girl had vanished. On any other occasion, he would assume she chickened out, knowing she would lose. But now, he knew that she was not a simple girl. The trees guided her moves, the dormant grass awoke with her touch, the birds were silenced in awe of her presence. He had never met anyone so _in touch_. He had never met anyone that scared him so. Yes, he was scared. She disappeared into the gloom, leaving him to wonder where she would turn up next.

Black in the corner of his eye sent him whirling, trying to pin point where it came from and where it had gone. As the last bit of crimson sky vanished over the horizon, his heart began to pound. Laughter, that of a little girl, sounded acutely in his ears. Hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up, leaving trails of goosebumps blemishing his skin. He took up a defensive stance, something he didn't do often, and spun around slowly, looking for any sign of life. The few birds he registered earlier, squirrels and rabbits, were gone. The hoot of an owl startled him, sending him spiralling backwards and gasping for air.

The glide of wings sounded above him, casting a large shadow across the ground. Too large to belong to any bird, yet, nothing was above him but the taunting moon. Was everything here against him? A shot flew past his ear, earning a glare from him to the dusk where it came from. His gun slid towards him. Picking it up, he could tell by the weight that it was loaded. He was tempted to throw it away, show he wasn't scared. But it was too late. By now she would have seen his fear, smelled it on him. And, to be truthful, he felt he needed an advantage.

A hand touched his shoulder and he spun around, firing a shot into the empty air behind him. Whirling around again, he shot past her ear and glared menacingly. She looked like an angel of death, he black hair flowing behind her sleekly, her grey eyes dull with _nothingness_, her face gleaming with the moonlight. She slapped him with the back of her hand, a sharp note shattering the silence. He reached out to grab her collar, pulling her up and slamming her into the ground. He fixed his hands around her neck, pushing down, depleting her air supply.

Black dots danced across Anastasie's eyes. Her body felt numb, a final relief after the constant pain in her chest and ankle, not to mention the dark bruises that littered her body. What would happen if she were to die? What would happen to her nation? Her people? Her clearing? Her... _Ivan_?

_Ivan_, she thought.

_Ivan._

_Ivan._

_Ivan._

"Ana!" A voice obscured the silence, breaking it and distracting the brute on top of her. She kneed him in the gut, flipping him over and punching at his face angrily. She got up and loomed over him, her face darkening as the thoughts of blood tarnished her mind.

"Leave." She commanded, but the man stared back at her. "Leave," she repeated, narrowing her eyes. He wouldn't leave. She grabbed the back of his shirt, dragging him behind a tree and leaning him against its trunk. He faintly tried to move his arms. Under the cover of the trees, her eyes glowed like sterling silver, her black hair invisible under the deep obsidian the needles provided to the cover.

"I don't think he will be happy to find you here," she scowled as a Russian voice continued ringing through the trees. Smiling, she stroked his cheek, almost... _lovingly?_ "Neither will your boss,"

"You sadistic bi-" He was cut off by a _tsk_, _tsk_ and the wave of a finger.

"You will never come back ever again, oui?" What did she say? Bile rising up in his throat, tears welling in his cerulean eyes. Nothing. No similarities. She was not... Could not...

She left him to the secrets that the forest may hold, the beasts that dwelt in its precipices.

* * *

She sat against a tree, her scarf and mitts on and bowl in hand, pretending to sleep. "Anastasie!" She could hear Ivan call, "Ana!" She knew she should get up and go to him, but the thought of him caring enough to look for her, kept her in place. She wanted to relish this moment of knowing what it was to be loved for just a little while longer. She wanted to hear the anguish in his voice as he called her name into the rapidly peaking night.

* * *

Ivan looked around furiously. Where was she? He had woken up at seven and realized she made him borscht, how did she know it was his favourite let alone how to make it? He heated it and ate. It was delicious, but now, all he wanted was to get Ana back. She had acted strange all day and now she disappeared. Was this somehow his fault? Had meeting England upset her? Was he... neglecting her somehow?

He continued calling until his throat was raw and even still called out into the dark, "Ana," he breathed when he saw a figure slumped against a tree, "Ana!" He raced over and shook her awake.

"You woke me up,"

"Have you been here the whole time? Why are you out here?"

"I came out to eat. I fell asleep."

He shook his head in exasperation, "Well, come on, then,"

"Ivan," he looked back at her. He was angry, she realized. "Carry me?" Her voice came out soft, like a child's and she asked him, not ordered him. Ana looked sincerely apologetic. She was so small against the great tree, her pallor was whiter than usual, probably due to the cold, and her lips had a slight blue tinge. He supported her back with his right hand, his left under her kneecaps-bridal style. He picked her up with more force than needed. She was so light. Like Matthew.

He began to walk back but she moved, wrapping her arms around his head, her faced buried in his scalp. Her chest was warm against his cheek as he began taking long strides back to the house. He managed to open and close the door, locking it with her in his arms and walked up the stairs to her bedroom. Moonlight poured through the open curtains, painting the room a cool blue. He laid her on the satin duvet, removing her boots, hat, scarf and coat and laying her under the thick covers.

Lastly, he unwrapped her sleeping arms from around his neck, deploring having to relinquish the heat. Ivan looked at her dozing face, so full of emotion when she slept. He found himself leaning over and protectively kissing her forehead before closing the curtains and leaving the room.

* * *

**A/N: **Whoa, lots of stuff happening! This is probably going to be one of the longer chapters, so don't be thinking they'll be getting giant from here on out. It's just this one. If you have any tips for me on fighting scenes, they're very much welcomed! As always, tell me if I got translations wrong or if I have spelling or grammar mistakes (minus this annoying "passive voice" thing. I'm Canadian, we're passive people). And let's all hope I get over my writer's block, otherwise there won't be a chapter four! Oh, and sorry for the OOC of the characters, I tried to find a beta reader, but I couldn't.

**Translations:  
нет (Russian): **No  
**Da (Russian): **Yes  
**Oui (French): **Yes

**DISCLAIMER! **I do not own any copyrighted materials mentioned within this story and it is not an accurate representation of my own beliefs. Chudos are a real Russian cereal brand and I don't own Earl Grey. Although I wish I did.

**Chapter Three Teaser: **On the dresser lay a photo album, one of their older ones from the 19th and 20th century. It was slightly out of place. _Francis was looking at pictures of the four of us_, Arthur realized, _from when we were a family..._ He snuggled in beside Francis, wrapping his arms around the weeping man, "Why couldn't it stay the same?" He cried into Arthur's chest.


	3. Chapter 3: Deceit

**In Dedication to**

_TreesandCheese, _editor and the author of the prequel,

_DragonFlame666_ for being a good friend,

_Artificial Starlight _for motivating me to be an author,

My friend who is obsessed with RusCan (you know who you are).

**Chapter Three:**

"_I believe in everything until it's disproved. _

_So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. _

_It all exists, even if it's in your mind. _

_Who's to say that dreams and nightmares_

_aren't as real as the here and now?"_

John Lennon

**H**e walked through the corridors_ of the White House, as he did that fateful day, but Matthew wasn't there with him this time. The lights flickered angrily as he passed through the halls, through the Roosevelt room, disfigured by the most recent string of presidents, and finally, he stopped in front of the door to the Oval office. The lights flickered out. He opened the door, slowly, cautiously. _

_His eyes adjusted slowly to the bits of moonlight penetrating the curtains. He flipped on the lights, but they wouldn't work. He walked over to the curtains, his foot landing in something sticky. And _wet_._

_The windows blew ajar, wind and starlight rushing into the dim room. Curtains fluttered around Ivan as his breath caught in his chest. Lightning flashed brightly across the stars. Orbs in the sky, so far away._

_In the centre of the office, lay Anastasie.__She was a mess of inky, black shadows. Stepping forward, he made out feathers coated in thick blood. Feathers? Wings? Her own...? Bent out at awkward angles were wings like a black bird's, prosperous in flight, but now nothing more than a heap. Hair matted in sticky waves, plastered to her unclothed body, blemished only by blood but no visible wounds._

_ He didn't need to see her like this, not the girl he had taken in, not his daughter. As though the god Ivan had yet to see the proven existence of had not had enough of a show, beside the beautiful raven was a stunning dove. His angel. If anything, he appeared worse because you could see everything in detail against the white of his wings and the honey of his hair._

_ "I-Ivan," the Canadian croaked, bringing Ivan away from his terrorized thoughts._

_"__Matvey!" He exclaimed, running to his side, sliding his fingers under his bare back, lifting him up._

_"__Ivan,"_

_"__Yes, _angel_," Ivan said, directing his gaze away from Matthew's broken wings and to his face, dirty with abuse._

_"__Why didn't you save me?" The words stung him like a pile of bricks to the face, only worse. He vanished in a pile of grey ash, leaving Ivan on his own. Except for the slate eyes, piercing him_

_"__Ana," Russia murmured. He knelt next to her, scared to touch her bare skin._

_"__You're crying, Ivan," she said evenly. Russia reached up to hesitantly touch the hot, salty tears streaming from his violet eyes. "You're crying for him," Ivan nodded._

_"__Does he deserve your tears?" Russia looked up at her, confused by her words. _Of course he deserves my tears!_ He though to himself, wanting to scream at her. But he couldn't talk. "I wish you would cry for me."_

_"__Ana?" It came out broken, as if he hadn't spoken in years._

_"__You chose him over me. I was alive, Ivan, when he was not. It has always been him." She said as if it were nothing. _

_A simple statement to her. She can't feel emotions. _

_Why was she crying, then?_

_"__I loved you. I only wanted you to love me, too," she reached up to touch his cheek, her delicate fingers turning to black dust at the touch._

_"__Ana, I-" Ivan stopped, "Ana? Ana!"_

_Oh, Ivan, Ivan. Whatever will you do? Your _bird_ has been grounded._

Ivan bolted upright in his bed and instinctively looked to his side, as if expecting Matthew to be there-or Ana. Ivan had had many dreams like that in the past, waking up to Matthew beside him. But Matthew was dead. Ana was not.

He threw the covers off of him, whipping the door open in a mad dash up the stairs and into Anastasie's room. The room was dark and the numbers on the clock flashed madly at 12:00. The power had gone out sometime in the night.

Ana was on the ground, tangled in blankets, "Ana!"

"I fell," she grumbled, "I just fell."

"Come, I'll help you up,"

She shook her head furiously, "leave me alone,"

"Ana," he tried in a persuasive tone as she began in a coughing fit. Ivan reached up to the lamp on the nightstand, turning it on. The light illuminated the scene. Anastasie was on the floor, coughing harshly into her hand, covers bunched around her waist, hair in a mess, a few buttons on her shirt undone, revealing the smooth contour of her collar bones-and bruises.

As she pulled her hand away, she gasped in horror. Red dabbed her palm, running over her fingers like silk. She looked up at Ivan, scared that he saw, scared of the anger written so plainly on his face. His hands worked quickly, pushing her against the side of the bed, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, exposing her torso.

Yellows, blues, purples and blacks blemished the otherwise perfect skin. His eyes continued downwards, acknowledging her stomach held the same colouring. His fingers prodded the swollen skin under her bra line, earning whimpers of pain from the girl, "it's only cracked," he announced, astonished. Along with the bruising, blood tarnished her snow-white skin, and he could only imagine what the rest of her looked like. "Take off the rest of your clothes," he walked away and into the connecting bathroom. Anastasie could hear the running water.

_I didn't make much noise when I fell. Why did he come up here?_ She thought to herself. She shrugged off her shirt and reached back to unclasp her bra. Carefully, she pulled down her leggings, grimacing when she pulled them over her ankle.

Ivan came back, wondering what was taking so long and saw her tall, lean body contorted in pain as she lifted her pants over her ankle. He picked up her foot and rubbed her swollen ankle, "You sprained it, Ana," _that was why she wanted me to carry her_, he realized. And here he had thought that she was to rely and trust him.

Picking her up again, he brought her to the bathtub, laying her in the lukewarm water. He grabbed a rag and began to gently wash off the blood from her battered body. "Ana, you're going to tell me what happened, da?"

"No,"

He looked back at her, disbelief marring his features, "Da, you are. You live in my house, you follow my rules," his voice softened a tone, "please, Ana, tell me what happened?" She shook her head, adamantly refusing his request, "_YA volnovalas'_" he said softly in Russian.

"I fell out of a tree,"

"нет, the truth,"

"I fell out of a tree," she repeated.

"Ana!"

"Tree." He rolled his mauve eyes, giving up and continuing to wash her, "Ivan,"

"Da?"

"_Spasibo,_" He reached up to touch her cheek, pink from the steam rising from bathtub, his eyes conveying his earlier message. However, Anastasie just looked at him, as if unable to recognize the feelings. He lowered his hand and continued washing her, the water tinting red with blood.

* * *

Ivan whisked her under the covers after addressing the condition of her injuries, which weren't as bad as he originally had believed. He wanted to know the truth. But he knew that Anastasie wouldn't give it to him.

The floorboards creaked in protest as he walked down the stairs and into the dark abyss of his living room. He switched on his television and flipped through the channels. His screen was littered with soap operas and their compatriots, late night comedy sketches until, after a few minutes too long, the news finally came on.

Ivan leaned forward, sipping from his bottle and listening intently to the woman broadcaster. She sputtered the usual. The weather had gotten unexpectedly cold but that it should be definitely warming up by next Monday. _Isn't that what they said yesterday?_ Ivan rolled his eyes. The woman was soon replaced by a man sitting behind a desk, his tailored suit creased to perfection, his face clean-shaven.

Japan was still trying to get the Koreas back into the Japanese empire and Israel and Palestine were at each other's necks once again. But what Ivan was looking for was _American_ news. A few days ago there had been news on an armed uprising in the _Northern Territories_, which is where many of the Canadians had accumulated after the US invaded. In actuality, it was just a name given to it and it occupied the North-west territories, Yukon, Nunavut and the northern half of Quebec and Labrador. The Canadians hadn't caused trouble in the nearly one hundred years that Canada had been dissolved and the sudden news of it along with the reported executions of almost ten people was enough to make everyone in the world stop and listen. No one, not even Mexico or Cuba, had revolted in just about thirty years, leaving the _United States Empire_ unchallenged.

Ivan wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know what would happen to Matvey's people.

"In other news, the Northern Territories had seen an uprising in recent days. An official number of eight people were executed on charges of leading the revolt and an unofficial count of approximately twenty people had been shot down by the military in trying to calm the crowds,

"The northern half of what used to be Canada and is occupied by over eighty percent of Canadian descendants has never been home to an uprising of any sort and comes as a surprise to the United Empire as they haven't seen such a riot in over thirty years, when the last of the Cuban uprisings were shut down. No further information has come from the empire aside from a statement from the president saying that, quote, 'The measures taken were appropriate to the situation,'"

_Bullshit_, Ivan thought to himself, turning the T.V. off and leaning his head against the back of the couch, _No government would kill over twenty people in one riot unless there had been multiple instances_. He knew that every country would keep their eye on the States, especially those still in the UN; the Russian Federation, the United Kingdom and France would most certainly do so. China would as well, though they'd keep it hidden. Germany would, too.

Ivan set the empty bottle down on the coffee table, resting his feet beside it. _Sweet silence_, he thought to himself. If the T.V. wasn't on, his house was always this quiet. Ana didn't talk. Ivan could remember a time when his home was filled with the sweet laughter of Matthew and his sisters. Francis, Arthur and even Alfred had been there almost constantly with Matvey at some form of a holiday or another. Ivan could still smell the Canadian's presence, could see the little knickknacks here and there showing off his taste in decor.

Ivan wanted that warmth back in his life. He'd felt so alone for so long and surely Ana felt the same.

* * *

Arthur silently locked the door behind him in case Francis was over. He didn't need the Frenchman jumping all over him. He was tired and jet-lagged and utterly confused about what had happened. _Earl Grey? How did she know that was my favourite..? Must have been a coincidence_ The man thought to himself, taking the scarf Francis had made him last year off and hanging it on the coat tree next to his coat-and Francis'.

Arthur sighed, removing his shoes and walking into the kitchen where he'd brew himself a nice cup of camomile. He glanced over to the dinning room table where he spotted the Frenchman leaning his head on his arms. _He fell asleep waiting for me_, he thought to himself, _the cheeky frog_. The candles were left unlit, the lighter sitting beside them. "Francis," he said, shaking him gently, "Francis,"

"Hmm?" He blinked, lifting his head up, blond locks falling over his face, "_mon cher_, you're back!" He whispered happily, reaching out to hug Arthur.

"I was only in Russia. I don't know why you're so clingy, you git," his voice softened when he saw the other man's frown, "Come on, let's get to bed. Let me just grab my tea..."

Arthur wondered back into the kitchen, pouring the steeping tea into a floral teacup and dissolving two teaspoons of sugar in. Him and his uninvited guest made their way upstairs. Francis was unusually tranquil and after changing, climbed under the covers and started dozing off. No suggestive one-liners or looks towards England as he unbuttoned his shirt.

On the dresser lay a photo album, one of their older ones from the 19th and 20th century. It was slightly out of place. _Francis was looking at pictures of the four of us_, Arthur realized, _from when we were a family..._ He snuggled in beside Francis, wrapping his arms around the weeping man, "Why couldn't it stay the same?" He cried into Arthur's chest.

"I don't know, Hun," he whispered.

His tea was left to cool, alone and forgotten.

* * *

**A/N: **Third chapter! I'm so excited and I'm sorry for the unrealisticness/OOCness of Ivan's dream but it was, in fact, a dream. Once I was riding a robot around the superstore in a dream. They're not realistic. As a side note, I know Ana coughed up blood but that was more so to just keep everything going and less so because of anything else. I think. So, maybe she bit her cheek or tongue when she fell. Anyways! Thank you for the reviews and for reading my story! For anyone who hasn't yet, you really should read _Becoming a Memory_ by TreesandCheese because it is the prequel to my story and as such you kind of should read it to get a grip on what kind of world we're in. Oh! Russia not supposed to be a pervert or anything, by the way. Just think of when you were little and your parents bathed you. You didn't think they were pedophiles, did you? Moving on... Love you all!

**Translations:**

**Da (Russian): **Yes

**нет (Russian): **No

**YA volnovalas' (Russian): **I was worried

**Spasibo (Russian): **Thank you

**Mon Cher (French): **My dear

**Disclaimer! I do not own any copyrighted materials in this piece, only Anastasie. _Chudos_ are legit, people.**

**Chapter Four Teaser:** "I want to get something pink. Or blue." A colour other than her current pallet of greys and blacks? Ivan was all for it. He was happy that she was expressing interest in normal things. You know, other than the many shades of grey in the world and poems by Poe. Because_ that_ was normal.


	4. Chapter 4: Beatific

**In Dedication to,**

My editor, _TreesandCheese_,

My good friend, _DragonFlame666_,

My inspiration, _Artificial Starlight_,

And to you, my readers.

**Chapter Four:**

"_Enjoy the little things, _

_for one day you may look back _

_and realize they were the big things."_

Robert Brault

_**I**__van didn't know_ what happened. Well, he did, but it was still confusing the hell out of him.

The increasingly antisocial girl he just happened to live with suddenly stopped being antisocial. Sort of. Kinda.

In the week since her... _altercation_ with a tree, she had managed to barely speak at all. Ivan would only _just_ catch her finishing her _chudos_ in the morning and then he wouldn't hear or see a thing of her until four hours later, when she'd come down and demand lunch. In a word or two. Except for the day when Ana managed to only stare at Ivan until the Russian felt so uncomfortable he gave up trying to make the creep talk and made her lunch.

Don't even get him started on supper.

Not unlike any other day this week, Ivan had been reading when he happened to notice the time. Instead of waiting for Ana to come and bear down on him again, he got up and rummaged through the 'fridge. Leave it to the scrawny kid to eat all the food in the house just three days after grocery shopping.

Ivan had scrawled in lopsided writing a note telling Ana he'd be back in about an hour with food. He grabbed his boots, a light spring coat and his keys before slipping into the garage and unlocking his car. He easily slid the gear back into reverse, opening the door behind him with a remote.

The vehicle came to sudden stop. "Ana!" A startled shriek came from Russia as he nearly _ran her over_. The girl calmly walked over to the passenger seat and sat down, carrier bag slung over her black-clad shoulder and hair braided meticulously.

And this is why Ivan ended up driving into Moscow with the antisocial-but-suddenly-not-antisocial girl he lived with. For the first time.

The sun was shining through the hood of the car, heating the cabin. Another thing that confused Ivan – how was Ana _not_ dying in the layers she was wearing? He took his eyes off the road momentarily to see Ana procuring an old disc from her bag. Scribbled on the front in what was clearly Ana's writing, was a list of songs. Old songs. Like, songs from over _one hundred_ years ago. Songs Ivan hadn't heard since... Since Matthew had made a mixed disc like that back in two thousand and something.

Naturally, the first song on it was American Pie. Ivan looked at Ana, violet eyes filled with confusion and curiosity. She nipped her bottom lip nervously before opening her mouth, "It took me all week but I found a couple of CDs and liked a few songs..." A light tinge of pink danced on her cheeks.

"Ana," her face turned to his, nervousness flashed in her steely eyes, "do you know how long it's been since I've heard this song?" A laugh left the Russian and filled the car. He didn't feel like his usual self. He felt free and it brought back so many happy memories it was overwhelming to the man. Did the girl know the song? Ivan wondered to himself as the song was brought up to an exciting key.

"_Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above?_" Came a slow and whispered line of the song. Astounded, Ivan turned to her. Sometimes it was hard for him to remember she was, in fact, still young. Then again, she had used a CD and not those weird things people used those days that Ivan could never remember the name of. Russia remembered talking to England once about the internet and the man had told him he was a lost cause when it came to teaching him. It made Ivan wonder how he was handling the newer technology.

Tuning back into the song, he heard the lyrics: "_Can you teach me how to dance real slow?_" The Russian laughed, a light giggle coming from the shy girl beside him. It took them a while to conjure up their courage to sing. The chorus seemed like a safe bet.

"_'Bye, bye, miss American Pie.' Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,_" they chimed together. "_Them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye and singin' 'this'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die.'_"

The eight minute song continued on with the loud voices of the two Russians, who happily sang the lyrics with the ease of two who had known each other forever. And a half. Definitely forever and a half. That song and several other blasts from the past sent the two into spirals of hysterics and loud, off-key lyrics.

The drive from Ivan's house to Moscow had never been so short. "Ivan," he heard Ana say, "can we go shopping?"

"Shopping?" Wondering at the sudden interest in _shopping_ the girl was displaying.

"I want to get something pink. Or blue." A colour other than her current pallet of greys and blacks? Ivan was all for it. Something swelled in his chest, a biting feeling that was not uncomfortable and that he had never felt before_._ He was happy that she had been expressing interest in normal things. You know, other than the many shades of grey in the world and poems bye Poe. Because that was normal.

Grocery shopping was forgotten as the car was parked and the two lost themselves in the late April goings of Moscow's Red Square. "This is amazing!" Ana squealed, running around the cobblestone square. "It's so big!" She skipped around, nearly running over two tourists. Ivan apologized to the couple before trailing after the hyper teenager. _So _this_ is what happens when you allow a country to be a hermit for over fifty years_, Ivan sighed.

The square was almost just as Ivan had last seen it, only, it was crowded with people, booths, a few rides and streamers dangling haphazardly from light posts. Since when that day was special in any way, Ivan didn't know. Maybe they were just celebrating because they could. Either way, Ana was enjoying herself and that's what mattered.

"Is... Is that a Ferris wheel?" Ivan nodded in response, immediately regretting answering as the girl shrieked in his ear. "Can we go on it?"

"Calm down, Ana. Ferris wheels are always better at night." He replied to her inquisition.

A disappointed look marred her features, but only momentarily as she found herself engrossed in what looked like a carving booth. Upon closer inspection, Ivan realized what the man was making – dolls. In fact, he was making babushka dolls in the old-fashioned way, something Ivan had thought died out. A warmth spread in his heart as he watched two of his people, probably a father and son, carve the wood into the curved shapes that would later be painted into little girls or boys. In such a long time, Ivan had never felt such warmth and love for the Russian culture from his people. The patience of carving the dolls was more than enough to make passers stop and watch.

The father and son had even offered chairs to the people content with watching the proceedings. Ana was one of the people that looked just about ready to plop down on the street and watch for half and hour – give or take. There was even a little table set up where people could paint their own dolls alongside a middle-aged woman who was probably the mother.

It was like a human assembly line. The father cut the wood into long, rectangular shafts for the son to chisel and carve and then the mother (and crowd) painted the dolls. Ana walked up to the older man and began conversing with him in Russian. Ivan was surprised by the ease in which she was able to talk, her sentences flowing smoothly, since she scarcely talked in Russian at home, either speaking in English, French or Esperanto. Even though the man probably knew English like almost every other human on Earth, it always made people happy to be talked to in their native tongue.

The man barked at his son cheerfully, gesturing to the girl in front of him. He muttered encouraging words as Ana cautiously made her way to the workbench that the younger man was working on. "Andrei," the man said after he and her talked some, putting a hand on his chest. Andrei waved a hand to his father, "Dmitri," and then the older woman, "Anya. _Kak vas zovut?_"

_"__Men'a zovut Anastasie. Kak va__š__i dela?_" Ana asked Andrei.

"_Spasibo, horo__š__o. A vy?_" Ana smiled and nodded before Andrei proceeded to explain to her how he carved the dolls using the same technology the original creator did in the late eighteen hundreds. He set down the five-piece set once he was done with it and Ana put it together. She thanked him before walking over to Anya, Andrei's mother. The woman smiled and was happy to show her how to paint the dolls.

Ivan couldn't help but notice a small smile playing at his lips. A frown immediately replaced the fond expression as his eyes darkened. However, Ana continued, unfazed by anything around her. He walked up behind the chair Ana was in and bent down, whispering that he was going to get them lunch.

Ivan was getting hungry and he knew Ana's mood would only plummet the moment she realized she missed lunch. Weaving through the crowds proved more difficult then he had initially thought it would and it took him twice as long to get to the vendor he was eyeing. Vendors were once very popular in Russia until they went through a period of being obsolete throughout the latter half of the twentieth century and then the twenty-first, and here they were again. Whether or not this vendor was there because of the fair or because he was usually there, was not yet distinguished.

As Ivan approached, the aroma of piroshki, a bun deep-fried and either stuff with meat or various vegetables, permeated the mild air. He could tell it was mixed with _miso_, but it was yet to be determined what type of that Japanese spice had been used. The lineup wasn't too long, and Ivan found himself carrying the piroshki back to Ana in no time.

"What is it?" She asked as Ivan passed her the bun wrapped in napkins.

"Piroshki. Have you not had it yet?" Ivan was surprised she hadn't tried Piroshki in the some-fifty years she had lived with him. They _both_ needed to get out more.

She took a timid bite of the dough and a smiled crossed her face. "It's good." She stated as she bit back into the meat-pie. Ivan looked down at Ana's babushka dolls while he nibbled on his lunch. Ana picked the biggest and the smallest ones up, handing them to him, "paint them," she ordered.

Ivan took the dolls and sat down in an empty seat, a pirozhok in hand. How would he paint them?

* * *

Ivan collapsed on a bench, irritation clawing at him._ Never again_, he thought to himself, _am I going with a girl shopping_. He leaned back against the bench, preparing to get comfortable. Ana would come back soon ready for supper, so Ivan wouldn't have to wait too long.

Her expression was like stone when she finally came back. It seemed out of place after she was smiling all day but the serious face she wore was overshadowed by the ridiculous outfit she had picked up. She looked like a hippie, to be blunt. From her bell bottoms to her tie-dye shirt, it was the two '70s all over again. Ivan could remember both equally, the 1970s and the 2070s had both played host to the rise of youth trying to stop war. Did they succeed? Yes, they did. The war between Russia and the USE ended after six years because of the strikes.

Ana's grey eyes bore down on him as a cowboy hat was revealed from behind her back. She made a move to put it on his head, "No." He said blatantly.

"Put. On. The. Hat."

"нет."

"_Oui_."

"_Non_."

"_Jes_."

"Fine!" He ended the argument in English and took the hat from her and put it on. He probably looked absurd, but Ana didn't seem to think so.

She chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully before thinking, "It doesn't really suit him." She stated. She began walking away and murmuring, "maybe there's something that'll suit him over here..." _Who was she talking to?_ Ivan asked himself. She came back with an enormous plumed hat. He was not wearing that no matter what she said. He would _not_ wear it. He stood up and backed away.

Ana raised a brow as if to say, '_You dare challenge my authority to make you wear such questionable things?_'

Yes, in fact, he did dare. "Ivan will be coming back now, _won't he_? And he will put on the hat and be done with it." She sounded like a cross between him and his sister. The thought was enough to send shivers down his spine. Belarus was definitely one of the few people he was ever scared of.

"Ivan~" She sang, running towards him as he dashed away. For a terrifying moment he considered the possibility that Belarus had somehow possessed the girl's body.

Ivan looked back to notice that her pile of clothing for him to try on was getting larger as he ran away from her through the department store. He continued weaving throughout the aisles, hoping the store was as deserted as it seemed, until he noticed Ana disappeared. Thankful for the peace, he stopped to catch his breath. Maybe she had given up...

A pile of clothing - and Ana - fell on top of his head, sending them all tumbling to the ground in a fit of laughter. "You seriously have to try this on!" She said, holding up a pink boa.

"I am not trying that on."

"Yes, you are!" She exclaimed, moving to straddle him, "you have to!" Ivan was beginning to miss the old, silent Ana. She struggled to wrap it around Ivan's neck, over the scarf he wore, and Ivan fought against her the whole time in the mess of clothing and various accessories.

Ivan's phone vibrated in his pocket, "Hold on, Ana, hold on, it's my phone." A frown rested on her pouting face. "'Allo?" Ivan said into the cell phone, "_Izvinyat_?... _Da_..." His face darkened as he hung up the phone.

"We're leaving."

"What?" He pulled her up and led them out of the store, out of GUM and out of Red Square. Ivan wouldn't answer any of Ana's questions as he sat her in the front seat of his car and they left Moscow. His lips were set in a hard line.

Their beautifully painted nesting dolls were forgotten at the stand.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm so so so so so so so sorry that this chapter is late (cries)! I've been busy and, honestly, it took me the longest time for me to figure out _what the heck _I would write for this chapter! Thank you for your patience. This chapter, I feel, isn't all that great but at least it's _something_. I hope that chapter five is better and I'll try hard, I promise! My inspiration for this chapter include the songs "Moves like Jagger" by Maroon 5, "American Pie" by Don McLean and "Untouched" by the Veronicas. Don't. Even. Ask. Anyways, I love you guys so much and here are the translations for this chapter because not all of us are epic and can speak/read Russian (or French, or Esperanto).

**Translations:**

**Kak vas zovut?****(Russian): **What's your name?

**Men'a zovut Anastasie (Russian):** My name is Anastasie.

**Kak va****š****i dela**** (Russian):** How are you?

**Spasibo, horo****š****o. A vy**** (Russian):** I'm good, and you?

**нет (Russian): **No

**Oui (French): **Yes

**Non (French): **No

**Jes (Esperanto): **Yes

**Izvinyat**** (Russian): **Pardon?

**Da (Russian): **Yes

**Disclaimer! **I do not own any copyrighted materials referred to or used in this piece. Please do not sue me, as that would kind of suck. Piroshki are a real part of Russian cuisine and I did not in any way, shape or form invent Babushka dolls (I wasn't alive in the late 1800s).

**Chapter Five Teaser: **Ana woke to a big hand on her head, stroking her black locks. She risked opening her eyes to find Russia beside her, one hand on her head and the other holding a book. Анна Каренина - Anna Karenina. Almost like her name, but not the same spelling. And, of course, she didn't have a play-boy brother, an unhappy marriage to some government official and, to top it all off, an affair with a Count. That woman really was a busy body...


	5. Chapter 5: Enigmatic

**In Dedication to,**

My editor, _TreesandCheese,_

My dear friend, _Dragonflame666,_

My inspiration, _Artificial Starlight,_

My sister (I love you),

and you, my readers.

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

"_He never knew a single second could be expanded into something timeless and so archaic._

_It shook him to his core – there were no words for it." _

Dianna Hardy, _The Sands Of Time._

* * *

"**W**_hy would they _say that suddenly? Nothing like that has ever been brought up in the past."

"I don't know, sir."

"Of course not. I know that you'd never do something to jeopardize your people." The man looked away, rubbing his face. "It's just that my predecessor and I have worked so hard to make this country peaceful and to bring it where it is economically. It was a lot of work and no one wants to be at war with a super power like them. They've surpassed everyone, not one country on its own could overpower them."

"I know, sir."

"Just know that if you _are_ keeping something a secret from us that can forsake national security, you will be _severely_ punished."

"Haven't I already been punished?" Came a low reply.

"I'm sorry, Ivan; I know that was hard for you. Losing a friend like that... I can't even imagine. But now you have to pay attention to your people. They need you and so do I."

"Sir, I have always paid attention to my people. Without them,_ I wouldn't exist._"

* * *

Ana munched happily on her _chudos _once again. It really was the happiest part of her day - that and when Ivan would come home after work. She wondered what Ivan did at work with his boss. Maybe he helped him pinpoint the stress in the country? "Who knows..." She murmured through another spoonful of cereal.

She looked towards the clock on the stove, it was two o'clock. Three more hours and Ivan would be home and they could start gardening! Yesterday they had gone to some sort of outdoor market and bought a bunch of seeds and bulbs to plant in the Russian's seriously lacking garden. He barely touched it in the last hundred or two years. He had been so busy with work because of the wars he was waging and then... _And then Matthew died..._

Ana took another spoonful of _chudos _and stuffed them in her mouth.

Ana dumped her empty bowl in the sink and filled it with water; she could clean it later when she washed the dishes from supper. She began aimlessly wandering around the house. She liked just walking around, feeling the May air blow in through some of the open windows. It was unusually hot this spring and Ana hoped that it didn't entail a cool summer or worse - a heavy winter. She stopped at the big bay window in Ivan's office, sitting on the cushions.

She laid her head against the frame of the window, legs folded to her chest. She began to hum a joyful tune. However, contrary to the happy sound, she felt warm tears run down her pale cheeks. She hated being alone. It gave her too much time to think.

She could smell Russia in this room. The musty smell of his cologne and aftershave, the light tang of vodka that permeated the air. At first she mouthed words to her earlier humming and then slowly, her voice started:

"_Et ta valeur, de foi trempée, Protégera nos foyers et nos droits._" Her voice cracked as her tears spilled from her eyes but she finished, "_Protégera nos foyers et nos droits._" Ana laid her head down and arranged herself in the fetal position. She had no idea what threw her off-balance this morning and into a torrent of emotions. Nonetheless, they needed to be gone when Ivan got back.

* * *

Ana woke to a big hand on her head, stroking her black locks. She risked opening her eyes to find Russia beside her, one hand on her head and the other holding a book. Анна Каренина - Anna Karenina. Almost like her name, but not the same spelling. And, of course, she didn't have a play-boy brother, an unhappy marriage to some government official and, to top it all off, an affair with a Count. That woman really was a busy body...

But Ana did like the story and the sight of a big man like Ivan reading it made her laugh. Out loud.

"Ana? Oh, you're awake. Good, we can go garden now, yes?" He smiled, retracting his hand.

"Mhmm!" Ana exclaimed, smiling while wiping the sleep from her eyes. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Half after three. Wait, what? "Why are you home so early?" She questioned, grey eyes meeting violet.

"I finished my work early so I could plant the garden with you. I guessed you'd be getting bored by now." He got up and left the room, presumably to the garage where they had dropped off the supplies the day before. Ana followed after him. This would be fun.

* * *

The sun pelted down on their backs in the yard behind Ivan's house. The smell of spring was all around them, green covered everything and the forest with its chattering army of mammals was only steps away. Everything was flourishing, including the weeds. It had taken them all of three hours to clear out the garden of all the pesky plants. It was as though World War Three had started and lasted several hours. Now they were busy planting flowers. Lots of flowers.

Sunflower seeds and already growing sunflowers were planted in a plot near the forest, lining it like a wheat field. Ana could only imagine what it'd look like once all the flowers were grown. In the other flowerbeds they were planting crocus, wolf's bane, Maltese cross and, one of Ana's favourites, larkspur.

Ana sat back on her heels and picked at the dirt under her nails. Good thing Ivan had the foresight to get her some clothes for this sort of thing. And, being the strange person she was, went with worn overalls and a neon purple cotton blouse. Ivan just shook his head when she came out of the house.

She glanced over at Ivan who had his back to her. She crept away to the side of the house. "Ana?" Ivan called when he noticed she had gone. Maybe she went to get something to drink or maybe she was tired... He turned his attention back to the seeds he was planting. Big mistake.

Cold water hit the back of his head, sending shiver down his spine. He whirled around and grabbed for Ana but she was already running away, spraying water behind her. "Ana! _I will get you!_" He yelled as she swerved around the corner of the house, leaving puddles of water in her wake.

Ivan rounded the corner behind her, finding himself alone in the front yard. She was hiding somewhere-

_ Oof!_

"Got ya!" Ana cried as she stood triumphantly beside the bushes. He ran towards her and she shrieked as she ran away, dragging the hose with her.

"You know, Ana," Ivan called, "the length of the hose isn't going to last forever!"

"Huh?" She asked before stumbling face-first to the ground. The hose had run out. Ivan grabbed the end of the hose and sprayed water at Ana, who again ran away. Ivan turned off the hose and raced after her.

"That was cold!" She yelled to him.

"Da. Maybe you should have thought about that." She openly sneered at him and ran faster. Even still, she was no match for Russia, who caught up to her.

He picked her up and held her up above his head. She grabbed at his hands, freaking out because of the height. "Ivan! Ivan, put me down!"

"нeт. This is your punishment."

"Ivan!" She shrieked in disbelief. "It's scary up here, though!"

He made a face and replied, "You're scared of heights?" She nodded her head furiously, biting at her lower lip. "I'm sorry, Ana." He said, putting her down. He bit down the sarcastic comment he was going to say before she had made that face. She really was scared...

Or not. Ivan went crashing to the ground as Ana tackled him. She moved to straddle him and smiled exuberantly, "Don't underestimate your opponent, _mal'chik._" A dumbfounded expression crossed Russia's face. She got off of him and laid down in the damp grass beside him. Even minutes later she made no move to get up. "The sky is so pretty." She commented. Ivan looked over to her passive face. She looked so peaceful, so at home. He shifted his gaze to the blue, cloudless expanse above him.

"Yes, it is pretty." The two of them lay in comfortable silence, neither of them willing to move from their spots.

Ivan didn't know how long they stayed there, but the sun began to set and Ivan was starting to feel the gnawing of hunger in his stomach.

"I'm hungry." Ana stated flatly, glancing over to Russia.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Make me food." She said as though he were an idiot.

"Well, I'm hungry, too. Are you going to make me food?"

"No." Ivan rolled his eyes and got up, brushing both grass and wrinkles from his shirt. Ana did the same. The two walked through the back door into the house, abandoning the unfinished garden.

Before making supper, the two went their separate ways to get changed into dryer clothes. By the time Ana got to her room, she realized how cold she was. She rubbed her hands along her arms as goosebumps rose from the flawless skin. She blindly searched for the light switch, flicking it on. She searched for some clean pyjamas which consisted of an old Russian hockey jersey and a pair of comfortable shorts. The jersey, of course, she had stolen from Russia's closet after she'd gone through a growth spurt recently.

She slipped on her slippers and raced downstairs where she found Ivan already cooking off blini. "Blini?"

"Yes, is that okay?"

"Of course!" She exclaimed excitedly, seating herself in a bar stool at the island. A plate was set in front of her, the aroma of Russian pancakes becoming clear. She layered it with strawberry-rhubarb jam and then folded it into a quarter-shaped wedge. They reminded her of French _crêpes_.

* * *

Ana had gone to bed shortly after supper. It had been a long day for the girl, Ivan knew. She hadn't ever really done anything physical like she had today, but she proved herself more than capable.

Ivan was in the garage, searching through the drawers. His boss' conversation with him echoed in his mind. They couldn't have found out, could they? Ivan made sure to take care with his and Ana's identity. Ana had barely ever left the house until recently, so that couldn't have been the case... Even still, Ivan found himself weeding through the cluttered cabinet, searching for a flash light. "Aha!" He whispered to himself. He walked out the side door of the house and into the cool night air.

Stars hung in the sky, distant orbs that watched over Earth since its conception, like guardian angels. Shadows clung to ever surface it could and moonlight couldn't. Ivan walked briskly into the evergreen forest behind his house, waiting until the pine needles fully engulfed him to turn on the light. The smell was overwhelming at first, but slowly melted into a soft embrace. The flash light helped him navigate the otherwise pitch black wood.

It took him almost an hour to find Ana's glade. At first it seemed normal. Spring had arrived and wild flowers had sprouted up in the clearing. Squirrels' nests could been seen in the trees and fresh animal footprints marred the soft ground. Then he saw it - holes in the trees. Some were chunks taken out from the side and others were dents but all were made by the same thing; bullets.

He outlined a hole with his finger, wincing when a splinter latched onto his skin. He picked it out roughly before openly growling at the tree. "Fell out of a goddamn tree, my ass." He slammed a fist into the trunk of the coniferous tree. Why hadn't he come sooner? Why didn't he check the clearing the day _after_ Ana had come home with a twisted ankle and a cracked rib?

He started heading back home, quickening his pace. When he got back he planned on ripping that girl from bed and demanding what the heck had gone on out there. But as he approached, his anger slowly diminished. Maybe not his anger so much as his need to kill someone.

Was it them who had come? And if so, why would they take an interest in Ana? She_ didn't even know_ where her country was except for the clearing. What if they knew something she didn't? But then, the country might not have even been specifically referring to Russia. It still didn't change the fact that someone had shot at Ana. It couldn't have been _them_ if she had come out so unscathed, though. She barely had any training at all.

Ivan would wait until she was ready to tell him what had happened. However, if one more attempt at her life was taken, he would demand to know and he would kill whoever it was. No one would hurt his Ana.

* * *

The man stared at the picture, wondering how his little girl was. From what he was told, she wasn't so little anymore. She had grown up.

He wondered what she looked like and if her hair was still as silky as it used to be. He wondered if she still had the same resolve to accomplish the unaccomplishable. While he wished so much for it to come true, he didn't want it at the same time. In the long time he had known her, he had begun to love her. She was so selfless, always fussing over every little thing that was happening.

He set the picture down and buried his face in his cupped hands. He remembered every detail about her, just like he did his son. The way she climbed into bed with him at night when she had nightmares, the way she loved reading and animals and nature. Her love of music and people. He was just teaching her how to play the piano when she left. When the time came and she left him. He didn't know when he would see her again, but from the looks of it, it'd be soon.

How would he react to seeing her again? Would he fall down in tears or laugh happily? Would he hug her tightly or kiss her on the head like he used to? _Would he even recognize her?_ Then he wondered how she'd react. Would she be too old to jump into his arms like when she was little? Would she be too old to climb into his bed after a nightmare or to confess all of her fears to him?

Questions assaulted his brain until he heard a knock at the door. He wiped his eyes before snuggling under the covers, feigning sleep.

** Would he be able to let her go again?**

* * *

**A/N: **And here's the fifth chapter! It's dedicated to my little sister (who is not actually my little sister) and I hope it's better than the fourth chapter (if it wasn't for my editor, it would have been painful to read). In case you haven't noticed, I've never actually written fluff before (all of my original stories are dark and depressing...) To my little sister who is reading this (you know who you are), no, I did not hit Ivan when he swore but the same does not go for you. :) Once again, I apologize for my terrible OOCness. I'm also sorry for my inability to be inconspicuous (see: chapter 2). Anywho... I thank you all for taking the time to read my story and be expecting a sixth chapter next week! Unless, of course, I'm too busy taking over the world (see my profile for more information on the matter). I love you all (remember, I like chocolate. And reviews - views in general, too - are like chocolate)!

**Translations:**

**Et ta valeur, de foi trempée, Protégera nos foyers et nos droits (French): **Thy valour steeped in faith will protect our homes and our rights.

**нeт (Russian): **No

**Da (Russian): **Yes

**Mal'chik (Russian): **boy

**Disclaimer! **I don't own any copyrighted materials used in this piece and they all belong to their respective owners. _Chudos_ are a legit brand of cereal. So are _cheerios_, but Ana hates _cheerios_ so I'm going to stop mentioning them before she beats me up (see: Chapter 2).

**Chapter 6 Teaser: **Ivan looked up from his laptop, finding Ana sleeping in the sun-lit window, stretched out like a sated cat. A hand laid carelessly over her eyes. Ivan suppressed the chuckle forming in his chest, not wanting to wake Ana. If he did, he might end up with something bigger falling on his face – like that book by Marcel Proust. _What did the French do with their lives?_ Russia wondered to himself. Then again, one of his own people also wrote an absurdly long novel – Ivan should know, it was dropped on his head this morning.

**Tell me, by the way, do you like having the teasers at the end?*****


	6. Chapter 6: Pneuma

**In dedication to,**

My editor, _TreesandCheese_,

My good friend, _Dragonflame666_,

My inspiration,_ Artificial Starlight_,

My little sister,

and _you_, my amazing readers.

* * *

**Chapter Six:**

_"Have you ever given serious thought to the horrors of civil war? _

_Have you ever imagined the streams of blood flooding your streets and countrysides? _

_And the spectacle of the innocent cut up with the guilty in the same awful web of disaster?_

_ Have you considered that almost without exception every popular revolution is a blood thirsty act?"_

Jean-Jacques Lartigue

* * *

_**L**__ight filtered in through_ the windows of Ivan's office. A pale blue sky hung outside, stark white clouds lying against its large expanse. Spring had taken hold of Russia. Flowers littered the gardens of Ivan's house and their neighbour's across the street.

The scent of lavender was carried in through the open bay-window Ana sat in, propped up by crimson cushions. Sitting at a broad, stained-oak desk was Ivan, typing furiously at his computer. He had said something earlier about having to write up a report for one of his bosses, the Prime Minister of Russia.

Ana returned her attention to the book in her hands. Its spine was cracking and its pages were yellow with age and there was a coffee stain that lasted through a good two thirds of the story. Beside the picture of a purple-tinted woman were the words "James Hopkin – _Winter Under Water_". Ana dug it out along with several other books from Ivan's bookshelf. One of them, of course, was _War and Peace._ Ana silently vowed to never go near that monstrosity ever again as she rubbed her sleep-depraved eyes.

Never again would she try to read a book that _weighs more than her_ in three days. She hadn't slept in thirty-three hours and _War in Peace_ was abandoned on Ivan's bed – her special gift to him when she dropped it on his sleeping head this morning, whilst demanding breakfast in French (the book was the French version for some reason).

Ana tried to refocus her attention on the neglected paper in her hands, but failed as the squealing from across the street increased in volume. She shot a glare out the window, mentally willing the children to shut the- oh, water balloons.

The children's smiles grew (if it were possible) and Ana felt a slight tug on her own lips. As they threw the balloons at one another, the pale girl recalled her water fight with Ivan. The moment he sneezed – only once, for the record – Ana declared a victory and Ivan simply rolled his violet eyes (after secretly swearing revenge).

Ana traced the words printed in the book, feeling the worn paper and ripple of a coffee stain beneath her fingers. She brought the pages up to her nose, breathing in the musty scent that always came with old books. She loved it. She rested the book down before she gave Ivan the chance to catch her doing something so peculiar.

She sighed and leaned her head back against the wall, allowing her mind to wander elsewhere. _Where to? Who knows. The depth of man's mind is hard to perceive, _Ana narrated to herself, _Then again, I am neither male nor human, so what am I? _

_I am a clearing, that is what I am_. Ana giggled to herself as though some sort of inside joke had been shared.

She needed to do two things. First, she needed to get more sleep. Second, she needed to stop reading philosophical books.

Ana closed her eyes, succumbing to her fatigue.

* * *

Ivan looked up from his laptop, finding Ana sleeping in the sun-lit window, stretched out like a sated cat. A hand laid carelessly over her eyes. Ivan suppressed the chuckle forming in his chest, not wanting to wake Ana, if he did, he might end up with something bigger falling on his face – like that book by Marcel Proust. _What did the French do with their lives?_ Russia wondered to himself. Then again, one of his own people also wrote an absurdly long novel – Ivan should know, it was dropped on his head this morning.

Ivan grumbled to himself, massaging his temples. He was just glad it wasn't the hardcover edition he had.

He returned to typing up the report Gedeon Mihaylov, the Prime Minister, assigned him. Between him and his predecessor, Kaminski, he had never written so many reports about what his people felt or what _he_ felt would be good for the country. Most of his bosses before the last two had either ignored his existence or used his strength in battle. The memories of those times rushed back to Ivan, and instinctively he fought back the urge to break something in frustration.

None of the bosses ever knew how hard it was for a country to kill his own people. It was like tearing away a part of your soul – and for what? Nothing. Civil Wars, rebellions, revolutions. They all hurt. They were worse than wars. Opinions raked at the inside of your skull, driving you mad with confusion. What was the best for the people? Who were_ the people_? Too many things... _Too many thoughts..._

All that was behind Ivan now, though. His country was peaceful and content, possibly for the first time in history.

Ivan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He could feel it, his country. It was pulsing with energy. He could feel the icy spray of a waterfall, the vibrations in the air as a tiger roars mightily, the cool looming of a mountain overhead. He could hear his people go about their lives. He smiled as weddings, births, engagements, birthday parties, and general happiness played through his head. While, in contrast, funerals put a damper to him, however, he knew the family would be okay in the end. They always were...

Would _he_ be okay in the end without Matthew?

_No,_ he decided. Matvey was such a big part of his life, one that he'd never be able to forget. Only a little more than five months, and it would be the anniversary of his death. He remembered that day clearly.

_September 22__nd__, 2074._

Ivan and Matthew were watching, waiting. Waiting for the end to finally come.

Matthew stood, offering a crying Ivan a weak smile. This was the _end_ of their _everything._ It hadn't been long enough. Ivan had silently prayed to the god he stopped believing in, _I haven't had enough time with him yet, don't make him leave me. Like all the others.. Like my sisters, the Baltics..._

Through the one-way window, they could see Alfred and many other men in dark suits, one of which was the devilish, young president.

Alfred leaned over the desk, about to sign, when the two nations caught his gaze through the tinted window. Alfred couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.

One more signature.

It was almost over.

Matthew collapsed on the ground.

Alfred came in and asked Ivan to let go of _it._

"He's not an _it_, Alfred, he is your brother." Ivan remembered growling.

Still in his daze, Ivan reached up tentatively to his left pectoral, just above the heart. Underneath his shirt would be an invisible scar. Countries didn't scar from damage done to their bodies, so no mark was visible, but Ivan still saw it. On his thigh, too.

After being shot by the guards, Ivan was left there to find his own way out, the image of Matthew's slack body being dragged away still haunting him. He remembered leaving the building somehow.

That very day he was supposed to go back to Russia, but he couldn't. He stayed for two more days – a terrible mistake. Russia, France and the Netherlands had declared war on the USE, thinking Ivan had arrived home already, and he was taken as the first prisoner of war.

The war mostly consisted of air-strikes and oceanic battles. Soon the Dutch dropped out, and then the French. Russia was left all alone. The war ended with the treaty of Berlin.

Ivan regretted it all to this very day. He was unable to protect his maple-loving, polar bear-carrying Canada – his_ angel_.

Ivan squeezed his eyes shut, choking back threatening tears. His beloved Matthew with angelic hair, cherubic eyes and rosy cheeks was gone forever.

Ivan almost stood up and left, but something kept him in place. Oh, yes, his work.

He slowly opened his eyes, thankful for the lack of tears and glanced over at Ana. She was still sleeping, oblivious to his distress. He continued on his report, distracting himself from the morose thoughts.

He reread the words on the screen in front of him. Satisfied, he e-mailed them to him boss, but not before noticing something was in his inbox.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X- X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X- X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

To: Ivan Braginski (ivan_braginski )

From: Gedeon Mihaylov (gedeon_mihaylov )

_Privet_, comrade! Once again this is me inviting you to my annual barbeque. I know you haven't been able to make it in the past, but it would be nice if you could come this year. My cousin is bringing her friend, Olga, and I'm sure the two of you would hit it off right away! You can invite anyone you like. As always, it's on my ranch on the third of next month. Hope you can come!

From,

Gedeon Mihaylov

P.S. Don't make me order you to as your boss.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X- X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X- X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Ivan half expected to see an emoticon at the end, but, either way, he couldn't go. He wouldn't leave Ana on her own and it wasn't like she could go or anything. She was a country only he and England knew about. Probably France, too, but that would have been England's doing.

Ivan replied, politely declining. He reminded Gedeon that for certain reasons that he knew, Ivan couldn't date this Olga person and that he needed to stop using his work e-mail for private matters.

Well, at least this eccentric person knew how to run his country.

He deleted the e-mail. Maybe one day he'd be able to go with Ana, but not now. Mihaylov wouldn't like it if he found out Ivan had lied to him about a new personification.

Ivan spun around in his swirvel chair, unable to resist the temptation – who is? He stopped himself with his toe and laid his head back, dizzy from the spinning. He shut his eyes and waited for the motion sickness to pass. When it did, Ivan felt that the allure of a nap was to hard to pass up. Ana was asleep, too, so she'd be a hypocrite to make fun of him. He walked over to the plush couch in his office, comfy with age, and plunked down, ready for a good catnap.

* * *

**A/N: **Not a lot of dialog in this one, but that was kind of the point, I guess. It was actually hard to me to write this because of the lack of talking. I'm a talkative person so it kind of killed me. In any case, the memory Ivan was thinking of was the summary of the century! I literally summed up a thousand-something word-long fic into under 300 words. Phew! Now, you all be good readers and read "Becoming a Memory" if haven't already because it's kind of the prequel to my story. Some facts are a little different, but that's because I'm too lazy to invent magical things of the future. And don't try and e-mail Ivan or his boss (he and his predecessor are fictional, by the way) because I made those e-mails up. In any case! Thanks for reading! Love you guys! Remember my whole chocolate lecture from the previous chapter!

**Translations:**

**Privet (Russian): **Hello (informal, I believe).

**Disclaimer! **I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or anything else copyrighted in this fic! Ana, please don't hit me! You know I'm sorry you didn't get to each _chudos_ in this chapter, okay?

**Chapter Seven Teaser: **He moved to the back of the halls to where he over looked the living room. No sign of her. He opened his own door and even the guest rooms, just in case. No, he thought, slow realization creeping up his spine. There was no sign of forced entry or of a struggle, right? Ivan was just getting paranoid... But what if... What if something had happened... What if they found out about her? Or her attackers had returned? Ivan ran downstairs, frantically searching every crevice. He was about to call out her name when he noticed the dinning room doors were slightly ajar.


	7. Chapter 7: Cataclysm

**In Dedication To:**

_TreesandCheese,_ my editor,

_Dragonflame666,_ my friend,

_Artificial Starlight,_ my inspiration,

and you, my readers.

* * *

**Chapter Seven:**

"_Women and cats will do as they please, _

_men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea."_

Robert A. Heinlein

_**A**__na stood up from_ where she had been crouching, book in hand from the outdoor stand. They were on a street crowded with people and elaborate store fronts in an array of colours. The sidewalk was old and cobbled, adding to the charming atmosphere. This particular store had caught her attention. It was a bookstore and it was having a sidewalk sale. It had wooden shingles on its front painted in multiple shades of blue – sapphire, cerulean, and azure – edged in yellows and greens. It also had that old-book, new-book smell.

Soon, Ivan and Ana were on their way again. In reality, they were just loitering around Moscow until afternoon when they'd pick up England from the airport. It was quite sudden, actually, and Mihaylov told Ivan he had to pick him up from the airport himself since it was official business.

_"__Ivan, you'll pick him up at the airport, okay? It'd do us no good if the ambassador found us inhospitable. We need to be part of the GEA, Greater European Alliance."_

Ana refused to stay home. As a country, should she not also have the obligation to meet diplomats even if it's only once they've entered the car? Ivan could only say yes. He felt sorry for her since no one really knew where her country was, not even Ana. Though that was strange considering-

Every time Ivan's thoughts came around to that, he had to stop himself. It was no use speculating what the reasons were for her inability to pinpoint her country on a map, it would only make Ivan paranoid.

"Ivaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan~" She whined.

"Whaaat?" He replied, mimicking her tone.

"I'm hungry~"

"Ana, we just ate." The girl suddenly veered to the right, catching Ivan off guard, "Ana!"

She had led them to a French cafe. A waitress waited for them at the doors, prepared to seat the guests in the stylish salon. Dark, stained tables were without table cloths, the walls were painted deep red and trims were accented with pine green. Booths had red-cloth seats and even satin cushions. Set into a corner was a revolving display of antique wines – probably worth a small fortune. The bar was lively with patrons watching a Lokomotiv and Dinamo game.

Ana watched for a moment before forcing her eyes away. She noticed a fireplace in the corner, unlit, of course, but this would be a nice place to come in the winter.

"When is his flight touching down, again?"

"Quarter after three. We still have over an hour." Ivan replied, glancing at his watch. Ana mumbled in reply, too busy drooling over the desserts section of her menu.

"Are you getting anything?"

"No, we just ate."

"But we didn't have dessert! Look at this!" Ana exclaimed, half of her body flung over the table between them to shove the laminated pages in his face.

"I can't read it with it so close to my face, Ana."

"Oh," she backed up a little bit, struggling to get up off the table.

"Okay, what am I looking at?" He asked, rhetorically, taking the book in his large hands despite having one of his own. "Gozinakh, kozinaki. If you want my opinion, khalva." She pushed the menu down to get a look at what he was talking about. There were two golden, flower-shaped sweets against one another in the picture. Underneath it said that it was a syrupy dessert with walnuts and... sesame seeds? Ana needed to brush up on some of her Russian.

"The ptichie moloko looks yummy."

"Ana, it's pure sugar."

"So is this khalva."

"But it's not a slab of Jell-O and chocolate."

"Chocolate? I'm getting that."

The waitress made her way back to their booth. She was a different one from before. Her ombré hair was tied up in a bun and oval glasses rested on her nose, which was dotted with sun-freckles. "_Vom pomoch'_?"

"_Chashko kofee pazhaloosta._" Ivan said, smiling to the girl.

"_Ya khatela bi ptichye moloko?_"

"_Bol'she nechevo ne nozhna, spasibo._"

"_Spasibo._" The waitress replied, walking towards the swinging doors which, presumably, led to the kitchen. The two were left alone at their booth, silently watching the comings and goings around them and occasionally tuning into the football game on the LED. There were groups of friends laughing and couples exchanging sweet words. She returned her eyes to the TV. It was three-two, Dinamo. Ana turned her head to see Ivan watching the same game.

"_Preyatnava apeteta!_" The waitress returned, coffee and dessert in hand.

"_Spasibo._" The two patrons replied in unison, happy to get their orders.

Ana eyed her... lump of sugar, as Ivan would call it, hungrily. It looked good. Meanwhile, Ivan was busy sipping his coffee, praying that Ana wouldn't get a sugar high off of it.

She delicately cut into the white with the tip of her spoon, cracking the edge of the chocolate surface, before taking it into her mouth. It was sweet, indeed. The creamy gelatine melted in her mouth, just as it was supposed to.

"You're done already?" Ivan questioned in disbelief. The girl simply nodded. Ivan waved the waitress over to the table, "_Schyot pazhalosta,_" he said to the waitress.

She obliged, bringing them their bill, and soon the two were back on the street. "We should probably get going back to the car, da?" Ivan asked, showing Ana his watch. Antique, she noticed. It also had something engraved on it-

Ivan innocently slipped his sleeve down again, covering the watch. He watched her, anticipating her answer, "Da." The two crossed the street after ensuring there were no cars coming. Had there been any police around, they would have called them out for jaywalking. They turned to go back the way they came, hoping they'd be able to relocate where they had parked.

The two were silent on their way back, content to not add to the volume around them. They took in the sights and sounds, relishing the late-spring warmth that would soon be overwhelmed by the dry heat of summer. All the trees had budded, green leaves sprouting from branches overhead, and in store-front flowerbeds, daisies, among other flowers, grew. Every once in a while they came across a Russian flag, its blue, red and white stripes flying with the breeze. It was Russia's birthday soon...

"Ivan, can we go in there?" Ana asked, gesturing to a nostalgia shop. The two moved into the dark building. It smelled musty and dust floated around in the rays of sunlight. It was as though no one had cleaned it since the Soviet-era. Ana ran a finger over one of the books at the front, successfully cutting through the films of grime to get to the title before moving on.

"You sure know how to pick a place." Ivan joked, rubbing the cover of a book clean with a calloused hand. Ana muttered in agreement, moving towards the back of the shop. There was a second floor.

She weaved through the rows of bookshelves and stacks alike before finally reaching the staircase. It creaked angrily under her weight, screaming in annoyance. Ana continued onwards. The staircase wound up to the next floor, where she saw a sitting area. The chairs were plush with red and gold flower designs against the ageing beige fabric. A rug was in the middle of the two chairs and a side-table with an antique lamp as well.

She moved to pick up the book beside the brightly painted lamp. "I see you've found an oldie there, miss."Ana turned around quickly, startled by the voice. A short old man came out from behind a bookshelf. "Did I startle ya'?" He asked in his strange accent.

"You're American." She stated, looking at the old man.

"Not quite," Ana looked at him questioningly, "Canadian. But how could you tell that I wasn't fully Russian? My family has been here for over five generations."

"Your English. Russians speak English differently than you do,"

"Really? I haven't noticed. My name's Wyatt. Wyatt Green, and yours?"

"Anastasie." She looked around the room, "Is this your shop?" The old man shook his head.

"No, it's my cousin's. He's asked me to help his wife while he's away at some book auction."

"I didn't notice her, sorry." Ana said, not truly apologetic. How were you supposed to locate the cash register in such a mess?

"It's alright."

"Where do you keep the Russian classics, sir?" She asked him.

"Despite how cluttered this place appears," the man started, turning around with the sounds of clicking bones, "my cousin does keep things in certain places." Wyatt made his way towards the other side of the room. The walls were wooden, Ana now noticed, and were the same as the floor. The place where he led her had an old fireplace and windows that over looked the street, if you could see through them, that is. "Here we go." He said, gesturing to a stack of books beside a a bookshelf full of the same Cyrillic scripture.

"Thank you."

"I'll just be over here if you need any help." Ana nodded in acknowledgement, already reading the titles. Some of the books bindings were in poor condition, but in contrast, others looks brand new, albeit dusty.

She pulled a book off the shelf, enveloping herself in a cloud. Ana coughed into the crook of her elbow and opened the cover. _Crime and Punishment._ It was an old book, published over three hundred years ago by a Russian by the name of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. It was a crime novel, if the title wasn't clear enough, and though Ana knew she probably wouldn't like it all that much, Ivan might appreciate it.

She picked up a few others. Some by the long-gone author, Dan Brown, and another, an illustrated piece, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, in French, and another by Alexandre Dumas – _The Three Musketeers. _All classics, and all to be appreciated.

Ana crept down the stairs, not wanting to make any more noise than necessary. She wondered what had attracted his family to this city – this country – all those years ago. Maybe it was the mystique of the Russia, the culture? Ana didn't dwell on it. It wasn't like it mattered much, anyways.

She found Ivan sitting cross-legged on the ground, after purchasing her books, already nose-deep in _Mikhas' Charot, _or so the titled appeared to read. Ana had never heard of it before, but by the titled she judged it was Belarusian.

"Should we get going?" Ana asked, pulling up Ivan's sleeve to get a better look at the watch, both for the time and the engraving.

"Da." Ivan said, voice rasp from disuse. The two got up from the floor, brushing dust bunnies from their clothes. They went about the place, eventually finding the register where a little old lady sat. She was definitely Russian.

Ivan put the books on the old desk, tapping the rusting bell beside him lightly. The woman stirred from her nap and started babbling an incoherent stretch of Russian – or what Ana guessed was supposed to be Russian. Luckily, the man – what's his name? - Wyatt, came down, calming his cousin. He rung up the book for Ivan, after taking a second glance at Ana. She was here with such an... intimidating sort of man? It couldn't be her brother they looked nothing alike...

Apparently the man gave up, as he walked away again, back into the montage of dirt, dust and parchment.

"I don't think I trust you to pick stores anymore, Ana."

"You got a book, didn't you?"

"That had to be the worst taken care-of place in all of my country." Ivan replied, looking at Ana with a serious gaze.

Ana broke out in laughter, "It wasn't_ that_ bad!"

"I could barely see two feet in the murk!" He replied, joining in her hysterics. The two continued on, eventually making it to Ivan's car. They climbed in, putting their books in the back seat. It was about a half an hour to get to the airport from where they were, but with the traffic it would be a little more.

Ivan turned to key in the ignition after activating the voice-recognition system and print-database, which was the now overly-popular technology in automobiles. The engine roared to life and Ivan backed out of the parking space with the ease that most countries had with these things. 'Most' being all except Ana, who had barely been in a car until recently, let alone driven one of the beasts.

It was a relatively short drive, despite the onslaught of traffic, and sooner rather than later, they found themselves heading north-east on highway E-105, closing in on the airport. They turned off onto another section of highway, and Ana could see the large building in the distance. Ana watched as fields passed by, then forests and houses and, finally, they pulled into a spot at the airport. It wasn't too hard for them to find a parking place, as they were trying to get as far away from the entrance as possible. It would do no good if Ana was discovered as a country.

"I'll be back soon, da?" Ana nodded her head, putting ear buds into her ears and turning on some music.

Ivan shut the door behind him, hoping he wouldn't end up regretting bringing Ana along. It took him a while to finally get to the entrance, where, luckily, he realized his boss hadn't arrived yet. His boss may have a carefree personality normally, but when it came to his country – to Russia – he was ever the stickler. To know that there was a person that cared so much always made Ivan's day a little more bearable.

He found a leather seat in the terminal to sit in while he waited for the sleek, black, armoured Mercedes MIIC to pull up to the doors with a bunch of other vehicles, which it did, about five minutes after Ivan got there. He got up in preparation for the approach of his boss, Prime Minister Mihaylov, as the President, himself, couldn't make it.

A big man, about the same in stature as Ivan, held open the large glass doors for a group of similarly dressed men – and women, Ivan noticed – who formed a loose circle around the important man, the real head of the country, the PM.

"Ivan!" Ivan heard his name being called and smiled to the man saying his name and waving over the big heads in front of him. "Please, stand down, men. I'm sure Mr. Braginski won't be killing me anytime soon." Gedeon said with a light joking voice – Ivan and he were the only ones there at the moment that knew who Ivan actually was, and Ivan was content to keep it that way. He had never had such a bond with a boss before, which made Mihaylov special in his eyes.

"Prime Minister Mihaylov, it is nice to see you looking so well." Ivan said, referring to the flu he had caught in the winter before.

"Yes, of course, Ivan. And please, this encounter is semi-formal, there's no need for such titles."

"Yes, Gedeon."

"There's a boy!" The man said, clapping him on the shoulders as the corners of his eyes crinkled with laugh lines.

"His flight is to touch down soon, da?" Gedeon nodded, taking a seat on the terminal seats and gesturing for Ivan to join him.

"Private terminals are always so quiet." Mihaylov commented, "Why ever did we get one here, again?"

"It was requested by the Queen. It was either that or you and I would have to have gone to St. Petersburg for the meeting. Leaders are paranoid ever since the bombing of another ambassador's flight." From then on they all sat, or stood, in silence until England's flight had been announced and they got up to receive him.

The aforementioned Brit was wearing a suit and shook his head at the sign in the hands of one of the larger, more stoic of guards.

**AMBASSADOR ARTHUR KIRKLAD**

The Russians always knew how to make someone feel welcomed... If not also making the visit a bit awkward. "Good to see you have made it safely, Ambassador Kirkland." Gedeon said, switching over to English with ease while taking long strides over to him to shake his had.

"You as well, sir. I hope you've gotten over your illness?"

"Oh, yes, long ago."

England then turned to Ivan, "Nice to see you again."

"You, as well."

"Where will you be staying, Ambassador?" Mihaylov asked.

"The usual, sir."

"Well, I'm glad you could make it. I must be going. If you would like, you could have a ride with me back to your hotel."

"It's alright, sir," Ivan chipped in, "I can drive him"

"Thank you, Ivan. Have a good day." With that the Prime Minister left with his brigade of guards on his heel.

The two left the terminal and stepped out into the white light of the sun.

"Where is your car, Russia?" England asked after a while of searching.

"Um..." Ivan's phone beeped, signalling that he had been messaged.

_From: Car_

_Walk right for five cars and cut between it and the sixth one._

And, sure enough, there was the car and, subsequently, Ana. She sat up in the passenger seat and peered out the open window.

"Oh, hello, Anastasie." The Briton blurted, not having expected to see her. He shot a look at Ivan, as if asking him why he didn't tell him that she was in the car.

"Hello, England." The eery girl replied, as though nothing had ever happened between them. She stepped out of the car, leaving the door open, and moved to the back row of seats. She was wearing blue jeans and a white top, a sharp contrast to the all-black he had first met her in.

A warm glow emanated from Ana's lightly sun-kissed skin and the translucent skin under her eyes had subsided a bit, making her look healthier. Arthur couldn't believe how much her appearance had changed since April. It was astounding.

England took the passenger seat and buckled up his seat belt. Russia put the key in the ignition and turned it, lighting the gas and successfully starting the car. The car was silent as they drove back to Moscow.

"I would like to invite you to dinner if you don't have any previous plans?"

"Nothing but eating whatever room service has to offer." England said, smiling at the Russian.

"Then you might as well come back with us, da?" It wasn't so much of a question as a command, so the Brit found himself nodding weakly.

"That sounds good. What's for supper?"

"I'm not sure yet." Ivan smiled in that creepy child-like manner he had.

"O-oh."

"Fish and chips." Both Ivan and England stared back at the girl who had a hard-cover book resting in her lap and her head down, reading the words. Ana looked up, "I thought it'd be nice for Mr. England to have something English, rather than Russian. Beets and buckwheat can be intimidating to some people." She joked, returning to her book. The men exchanged quick glances before returning their attention to the road. Despite her positive intentions, England didn't particularly like Ana after what she had asked – no, assumed.

Alfre- America killed his own brother, so of course he hated him, right? _Right?_

England didn't know what to think about it anymore, so he tried not to. However, with France's sudden obsession with the photo albums of the four of them and Ana's question lingering in the back of his mind, it was hard not to.

The car eventually left Moscow once again, not that England really payed any attention, and they were en route to Ivan's house.

Ivan typed in a password on his dashboard and the garage door opened, revealing the spacious room. He put the car back into drive and inched forward, into the four walls of the large room.

The door closed behind them with a mechanical grinding and they piled out of the car, Ivan going up to unlock the door to the house and Ana collecting the books strewn throughout the back seat. England simply stood around awkwardly, waiting to be called on, preferably by Russia

"Okay, let's go in." Russia said.

* * *

England and Russia were seated on the sofa, facing the TV. They were watching a football game on the screen. Ivan had persuaded England to root for his team. Ana rolled her eyes from where she was leaning against the archway as the two shouted in anger at the television. She turned around and went back into the kitchen.

She reentered the dark kitchen. The cabinets were medium wood and the counter tops were peacock green granite. She walked over to the stove and peered into the oven, checking on the fish and 'chips'. She hoped that England wouldn't care too much that they were baked and not fried. Ana liked to at least _try _to make things healthy (despite her love of sweets).

She glanced back at the TV to check when the game would be done. In five minutes, perfect timing. Ana sat down at the island and waited for the food to be done.

It was Ivan who first wandered into the kitchen. "Thank you for making dinner, Ana." Ivan smiled. She returned the gesture.

"It's almost done. Want to eat in here or the dinning room?"

"Here's good, Ana." Ivan moved towards the cupboards and started to pull out sets of three of plates, forks, knives and cups. Together they set the table, Ivan with silverware and plates and Ana with the food.

"Where's England?"

"He went to the bathroom." Ana nodded, moving over to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Ivan followed the same procedure after her. Soon the three of them were all seated at the kitchen table, eating by the light of the setting sun.

* * *

Ivan set his keys down on what he assumed to be the table in the hallway leading from the garage, taking his boots off and palming the wall to find the keypad. He punched in his password before the stupid system had the chance to think he was a burglar.

He walked along the wall until he met the next hall, the one that led to the many rooms in the house, to find it without light. He flipped up the switch and the room was flooded with artificial brightness.

The house was quiet. The TV wasn't on, and Ivan didn't hear any water running from a shower or anything. She's probably just reading up in her room.

Ivan walked to the front of the house, near the doors, and walked up the staircase, steadying himself with the banister and hoping he wouldn't trip and fall in the dark. He turned on another light and knocked on Ana's door. No answer.

"Ana?" He called quietly before opening the door. The room was empty as he stepped in and he walked over the adjacent bathroom, his eyebrows knotting in confusion.

_Where was she?_ Ivan walked over to the second-level door to the two-storey library and office. It was dark in there as well.

He moved to the back of the halls to where he overlooked the living room. No sign of her. He opened his own door and even the guest rooms, just in case.

No, he thought, slow realization creeping up his spine. There was no sign of forced entry or of a struggle, right? Ivan was just getting paranoid... But what if... What if something had happened... What if they found out about her? Or her attackers had returned? Ivan ran downstairs, frantically searching every crevice. He was about to call out her name when he noticed the dinning room doors were slightly ajar.

He cautiously opened the doors, his muscles coiling like a spring as he steeled himself for an attack.

* * *

**A/N: **Chapter seven is up! Woo! Thank you to my fourth-ever reviewer, SernaJ, for taking the time to help me with the cultural references in the story. Well... Just so you know, "football" means soccer in this chapter. I decided to use that terminology because that's what they call it in Europe (and whatever Russia is. Seriously... Is Russia part of Asia, Europe or is it its own unofficial continent? :P) In any case... Go for creepy bodyguards holding cute little airport signs! This is actually the longest chapter so far at over 4000 words. I guess I lied when I said chapter two would probably be the longest chapter. I don't know if the chapters will get longer from here or what... But whichever! Love you guys! Reviews are like chocolate (or cereal) and motivate me to write! This story hasn't gotten much of a response yet... So tell me you're out there and that my story doesn't totally suck!

**Translations:**

**Vom pomoch' (Russian): **How may I help you .

**Chashko kofee pazhaloosta (Russian): **A cup of coffee, please.

**Ya khatela bi ptichye moloko (Russian): **I'd like some ptichie moloko (bird's nesting milk [cake]).

**Bol'she nechevo ne nozhna, spasibo (Russian): **Nothing more, thank you.

**Spasibo (Russian):** Thank you.

**Preyatnava apeteta! (Russian): **Bon Appetit!

**Schyot pazhalosta (Russian): **Bring the bill, please.

**Da (Russian) : **Yes

**Disclaimer! **Je n'ai pas les personnages! Really, I don't. And now you french-speaking people know I don't own the characters, either. :) _Chudos_ are legit despite not having made an appearance in this chapter (or the last *sad face*). And I don't own Mercedes, but I made up the Mercedes MIIC :)

**Chapter Eight Teaser:**"Ivan, even if I'm-" Coughing racked her body and she double over, using the table as support. Her lungs gasped breathlessly as they burned with an invisible fire. Her eyes stung with dark tears as they spilled over her cheeks. She collapsed on the ground, her body in complete agony as she was being incinerated from the inside out at the pace of a snail. She was vaguely aware of Ivan racing over to her. You know what? It wasn't even the physical pain that hurt her most. She could hear the... She could hear _their_...


	8. Chapter 8: Monstrosity

***IMPORTANT NOTE! I dunno if it uses Ana's full name in this chapter (because I can't remember and I don't feel like rereading it atm) but I've changed her name from AnastASIE to AnastAISE. Not much of a change spelling wise, but I thought you'd like to know ;)**

**In Dedication to**

_TreesandCheese, _my editor,

_Dragonflame666, _my friend,

_SernaJ_, another friend,

_Artificial Starlight_, my inspiration,

and you, my readers.

* * *

**Chapter Eight:**

"_We stopped checking for monsters under our bed when we realized they were inside of us."_

The Joker

_"__**H**__appy birthday, Ivan."_ He was greeted by a lithe form, lightly outlined by the faint glow of a single candle light atop a cake iced with the colours of his flag. _What?_ He ran forward to where the person was and swept them into a harsh embrace.

"_Jesus Christ,_ Ana, I thought you were gone." He murmured into her strawberry-scented black hair.

"'Gone'?" She asked, confused.

"I looked all over the house and I couldn't find you-"

"So that's what all that racket was?" She joked. He looked up at her, his violet eyes still filled with fear. Ana's face changed then and she rested a hand on his damp cheek. "Shh, Ivan, it's okay. I'm still here, everything is alright." He looked unconvinced. "I'm. Right. Here."

Ivan buried his head back into the crook of her neck for a few more moments before backing away from her, but still holding her shoulders. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't, Ivan. You have to tell me."

"You didn't fall out of a tree." He accused roughly.

"Of course I did. How else would I have sprained my ankle, silly"? She replied lightly, as though she weren't lying through her teeth.

"There were bullet holes in the trees. Do not lie to me." Ivan's eyes narrowed dangerously, "What happened in that clearing?_ Where is your country?_"

"I already told you that I don't know-"

"You can't hide it from me that is isn't anymore, Ana. Every personification I know, myself included, has a primal instinct of where their country is. Where is yours?"

"I don't know."

"Don't give me that! You do know! I deserve this knowledge after taking care of you for over fifty years!"

"I already told you that I don't know!" She replied, raising her voice at the accusations.

"You have to know, Ana!" The girl turned away. "Anastaise!"

"Just eat your cake. It'll clear your head." She said without emotion as she shoved a plate in his hands.

* * *

Ana ate her own slice and when she glanced over, she saw that Ivan was scarcely touching his own, not that she really cared.

Should she tell him her secret? Only two people knew it, could she tell a third? Surely he deserved to know, with his connection to all of this and everything he'd been through, but Ana didn't know whether or not to tell him.

She glanced up before hearing the terrible sound of metal hitting clay, and realized she had eaten all of her cake. It was good, maybe she'd have another slice later.

Ivan continued to turn what had once been a slice of cake into mush on his plate, his mind buried deep within his thoughts.

"You deserve to know." Ana stated, stirring Ivan from whatever dark things plagued him.

"Yes, I do."

"I do not want to tell you." She moved to get herself another piece of cake.

"You need to, Ana! You just said that I deserved to know. Please, just tell me." Softly, he added, "Can't you trust me?"

"Oh, Ivan. I want to, I really do. But I fear your reaction. You won't like it."

"I don't care! I want to know!"

"Ivan, even if I'm-" Coughing racked her body and she double over, using the table as support. Her lungs gasped breathlessly as they burned with an invisible fire. Her eyes stung with dark tears as they spilled over her cheeks. She collapsed on the ground, her body in complete agony as she was being incinerated from the inside out at the pace of a snail. She was vaguely aware of Ivan racing over to her.

You know what? It wasn't even the physical pain that hurt her most.

She could hear the... She could hear _their_...

* * *

The seat-belt light flashed on as the plane began its descent down to the asphalt. The field was dark with the exception of the lights lined up along the runway and the still-distant airbase. The light continued to flash angrily at the only passenger and he finally complied, not willing to get into an argument with a sign that night. The plane shook slightly, much less than it used to way-back-when. He remembered flying those planes and these plush, first-class, private jets that barely faltered even when landing, were nothing.

He wrung his hands for a moment as he recalled flying his first plane, remembering how excited and nervous he was to go in what many deemed a "death trap," including his good friend. He laughed at the memory before his face darkened again, remembering where he was and the times he lived in. This was not the country he had grown up in. No, really, it wasn't. It was, or at least what he personally thought, a war front in the making.

The pathetic man in power thought that a few public executions and ruthless pillaging would be enough to stop _them_, to shut _them_ up. But he knew different. He knew the determination of these people when they needed to be. He knew it all too well.

Glancing at his wrist, both for the time and the small white scar that was one of a few reminders of that determination, he readied himself for what was to come.

The plane touched down, bouncing slightly, and eventually came to a smooth stop. The man got up, slicking his hair away from his eyes before grabbing his suitcase from the compartment above his head. He walked up to the door as a man opened it and the stairs connected to the jet. He thanked the stranger before briskly walking down the stairs and into the hanger. A few soldiers were already lined up for him, and saluted sharply in their uniforms. At the end of the two rows, a lieutenant stood with a hand above his brow, mirroring the others.

"At ease." The man commanded from his place at the top of the stairs. He began his descent as the soldiers dropped their arms but stood firm.

"Sir," the Lieutenant greeted as he approached.

"Lieutenant Haasan," he replied, bobbing his head slightly.

"Sir, they're currently gathering around 52nd street in front of the city hall and the corner of 50th and 48th."

"Walk and talk." The man commanded.

"The people are rioting again. It seems they didn't learn from last time. Shall we teach them their lesson?"

"No, we'll wait a little while. Have you tried tear gas?"

"Tear gas won't teach them to not oppose us, sir."

The man turned around then, staring into the smaller man's eyes. "Well, killing them sure as hell didn't, either." He growled. The Lieutenant nodded feebly, intimidated by the tall man in front of him.

"Of course, sir" The walk to the armoured vehicle was then carried on in silence.

"Hello, sir."

"Finally, a man deserving of his position. General Harrack,"

"How so, VP?" He asked, a small smile lining his rough features.

"Please, have this man disciplined."

"I apologize, sir! I had no-"

"Just leave," the General huffed, waving him off. "I assume he briefed you, at least?"

"Yes, General. He told me that the riots have started again. Have you tried tear gas?"

"Waiting on your orders." The VP grunted in response, stepping into the car before the General. Harrack knocked on the glass between them and the driver, cuing him to set off towards the City hall, where the demonstrators were.

"Breaking them up with tear gas should work. They're not that determined anyways," the man stated blandly.

"They came back after we killed almost forty of them, and you think they're not determined?"

The VP looked over to him, smirking, "That's exactly what I thought in 1837 when they rebelled. And that worked out so well for them, hmm?"

"1837?" The General asked, confused.

"Yeah. Most pathetic excuse of a rebellion – if one could even call it that." The VP was sure that this would be over soon enough. The people were treated well enough, so they would quell this nonsense soon enough – if the personification was lucky. But even he didn't put much stock into his words. They were numb. It was actually quite a few years ago, maybe fifteen, when they started fading away. The country could barely feel the northern lands of his country anymore. _What was happening? _

"You okay, sir?" Harrack asked, worried about his sudden silence.

"Everything is fine, General."

They had reached the City Hall. Crowds – no, throngs – of people were holding up signs, screaming against the government. Some had clubs and were ramming them against the skulls of the soldiers, who, in turn, began firing at random into the crowd.

"Stop!" The Vice screamed to them as he got out of the armoured vehicle. The rebels, sensing he was important, immediately stopped, hoping that they were finally going to be heard. The guns ceased. "What is it you want?" He screamed into the crowd from his place in front of the car.

"_Libération! Indépendance!_" A man shouted in the dreadful language known as French. Despite the end of French occupancy so long ago, the countrymen still loved their language. Despite not being able to speak a lick of the language, the Vice President could understand it well enough without the following explanation, "Independence from you fascist bastards!"

"Is that any way to talk to the one in charge?" The rebelling man spat on the ground, not caring. "Launch the gas." The VP said nonchalantly, shrugging before reaching for the gas mask Harrack was offering him before stepping back into the car. It started off again, towards the base just past the airport. Behind him, he could only imagine the chaos following the launch of tear gas. It would disperse the crowd, which was what he wanted.

The highway disappeared behind them at a leisurely pace; they weren't in a rush.

The sound proof cabin prevented the General or the personification from hearing anything, but they understood something was wrong when the car suddenly veered to the side. The General rolled down the window between them and the driver. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Sir, the airport... It's... It's..."

"It's what-" The General was cut off as he stared through the windshield of the car.

The airport was on fire.

* * *

More specifically, the airport was being lit up by multiple weak, homemade bombs that were just very well placed.

The car sped down the highway at a back-breaking pace of four hundred kilometres an hour – almost two hundred and fifty miles. It would be an understatement to say they were there in the snap of a finger.

Another explosion shook the road beneath the wheels of the automobile as it made its way towards the source of the rumbles.

_Smart._ The man covered his face, laughing into his hands with a dejected humour. The rebels were determined. Determined to start a _war. _Just like how keen his country was to do so in the 2030s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s... Almost always until recently.

They pulled into the parking lot and were greeted with a group of soldiers. "What do you want us to do, sir?" They asked the General.

"Shoot on site any rebels on the grounds."

"No." The VP said firmly, "Gas the airport. Go to the city and get stragglers from the protest. Shoot them and any others you find. I don't care if they're guilty or not."

"Yes, sir!" The lieutenant-General turned towards his subordinates, "Get the tear gas ready."

"How about we use something more interesting? A little more... Unorthodox." The men looked at him in confusion. "C'mon, you guys are creative. Guess. No? Well, I was thinking something along the lines of... Let's say... Novichok-7?" He smiled, hate glinting in his eyes as the soldiers spluttered out incoherent stretches. "That was an order."

Once the soldiers left the General turned to him, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock. "W-what the hell? N-novichok? Are you insane? I thought you said they weren't determined?!" The VP smirked at the General. "Don't you have any qualms about killing people – your own people – by suffocating them and turning their organs against them? What about the pain?"

"Harrack, they want a war, so they will get one."

"But, sir!"

"Just get me to the base." But it was too late. He was a monster and he could already hear it.

He could hear their _screams._

* * *

**A/N: **And here's chapter eight! I'm planning on rewriting this whole thing... So, that may or may not mean that this story is going on hiatus until the end of summer, when I'll hopefully be done with the rewrite of the currently posted chapters and with chapters to come. Then I'll just do one giant post and it'll be something to chew on during your first week of school. If I decide to continue with this story while rewriting it at the same time, expect sparse updates in July, as it's a very busy month for me. I apologize for the crapiness that is my writing and I really want to get better at it and make this fic as awesome as the idea by _TreesandCheese_. Anyways, thank you for my ever-constant reviewer, _SernaJ_. It makes me really excited and motivated to get reviews. You all need to learn from her example =,= (Yes, I'm looking at you who has nothing better to do than to read this fic. At least say 'sup' like Leah or whatever the heck her name is in _Warm Bodies_. If R can get a 'sup,' I can, too.) Anywho, hopefully our good friend Mr. _Chudos_ makes an appearance in the next chapter. I think he might hate me now due to his lack of involvement. The idea for the third chapter of _It's All About Lemons_ is done and I'll have it posted by this weekend (hopefully). Love you guys!

**Translations:**

Okay, I explained the French already and it's past midnight and I'll edit this later if I find another foreign language thrown in somewhereokay?I'lljustgotosleeponmylaptopnowifyoud on'tmindpleaseandthankyou:P

**Disclaimer! **Me no own the copyrighted material in this story. _Chudos_ are legit.


End file.
